The train, which had been stopping everywhere for the last half-hour,pulled up again, and Mike, seeing the name of the station, got up,opened the door, and hurled a Gladstone bag out on to the platform inan emphatic and vindictive manner. Then he got out himself and lookedabout him.
"For the school, sir?" inquired the solitary porter, bustling up, asif he hoped by sheer energy to deceive the traveller into thinkingthat Sedleigh station was staffed by a great army of porters.
Mike nodded. A sombre nod. The nod Napoleon might have given ifsomebody had met him in 1812, and said, "So you're back from Moscow,eh?" Mike was feeling thoroughly jaundiced. The future seemed whollygloomy. And, so far from attempting to make the best of things, he hadset himself deliberately to look on the dark side. He thought, forinstance, that he had never seen a more repulsive porter, or one moreobviously incompetent than the man who had attached himself with afirm grasp to the handle of the bag as he strode off in the directionof the luggage-van. He disliked his voice, his appearance, and thecolour of his hair. Also the boots he wore. He hated the station, andthe man who took his ticket.
"Young gents at the school, sir," said the porter, perceiving fromMike's _distrait_ air that the boy was a stranger to the place,"goes up in the 'bus mostly. It's waiting here, sir. Hi, George!""I'll walk, thanks," said Mike frigidly.
"It's a goodish step, sir.""Here you are.""Thank you, sir. I'll send up your luggage by the 'bus, sir. Which'ouse was it you was going to?""Outwood's.""Right, sir. It's straight on up this road to the school. You can'tmiss it, sir.""Worse luck," said Mike.
He walked off up the road, sorrier for himself than ever. It was suchabsolutely rotten luck. About now, instead of being on his way to aplace where they probably ran a diabolo team instead of a cricketeleven, and played hunt-the-slipper in winter, he would be on thepoint of arriving at Wrykyn. And as captain of cricket, at that. Whichwas the bitter part of it. He had never been in command. For the lasttwo seasons he had been the star man, going in first, and heading theaverages easily at the end of the season; and the three captains underwhom he had played during his career as a Wrykynian, Burgess, Enderby,and Henfrey had always been sportsmen to him. But it was not the samething. He had meant to do such a lot for Wrykyn cricket this term. Hehad had an entirely new system of coaching in his mind. Now it mightnever be used. He had handed it on in a letter to Strachan, who wouldbe captain in his place; but probably Strachan would have some schemeof his own. There is nobody who could not edit a paper in the idealway; and there is nobody who has not a theory of his own aboutcricket-coaching at school.
Wrykyn, too, would be weak this year, now that he was no longer there.
Strachan was a good, free bat on his day, and, if he survived a fewovers, might make a century in an hour, but he was not to be dependedupon. There was no doubt that Mike's sudden withdrawal meant thatWrykyn would have a bad time that season. And it had been such awretched athletic year for the school. The football fifteen had beenhopeless, and had lost both the Ripton matches, the return by oversixty points. Sheen's victory in the light-weights at Aldershot hadbeen their one success. And now, on top of all this, the captain ofcricket was removed during the Easter holidays. Mike's heart bled forWrykyn, and he found himself loathing Sedleigh and all its works witha great loathing.
The only thing he could find in its favour was the fact that it wasset in a very pretty country. Of a different type from the Wrykyncountry, but almost as good. For three miles Mike made his way throughwoods and past fields. Once he crossed a river. It was soon after thisthat he caught sight, from the top of a hill, of a group of buildingsthat wore an unmistakably school-like look.
This must be Sedleigh.
Ten minutes' walk brought him to the school gates, and a baker's boydirected him to Mr. Outwood's.
There were three houses in a row, separated from the school buildingsby a cricket-field. Outwood's was the middle one of these.
Mike went to the front door, and knocked. At Wrykyn he had alwayscharged in at the beginning of term at the boys' entrance, but thisformal reporting of himself at Sedleigh suited his mood.
He inquired for Mr. Outwood, and was shown into a room lined withbooks. Presently the door opened, and the house-master appeared.
There was something pleasant and homely about Mr. Outwood. Inappearance he reminded Mike of Smee in "Peter Pan." He had the sameeyebrows and pince-nez and the same motherly look.
"Jackson?" he said mildly.
"Yes, sir.""I am very glad to see you, very glad indeed. Perhaps you would like acup of tea after your journey. I think you might like a cup of tea.
You come from Crofton, in Shropshire, I understand, Jackson, nearBrindleford? It is a part of the country which I have always wished tovisit. I daresay you have frequently seen the Cluniac Priory of St.
Ambrose at Brindleford?"Mike, who would not have recognised a Cluniac Priory if you had handedhim one on a tray, said he had not.
"Dear me! You have missed an opportunity which I should have been gladto have. I am preparing a book on Ruined Abbeys and Priories ofEngland, and it has always been my wish to see the Cluniac Priory ofSt. Ambrose. A deeply interesting relic of the sixteenth century.
Bishop Geoffrey, 1133-40----""Shall I go across to the boys' part, sir?""What? Yes. Oh, yes. Quite so. And perhaps you would like a cup of teaafter your journey? No? Quite so. Quite so. You should make a point ofvisiting the remains of the Cluniac Priory in the summer holidays,Jackson. You will find the matron in her room. In many respects it isunique. The northern altar is in a state of really wonderfulpreservation. It consists of a solid block of masonry five feet longand two and a half wide, with chamfered plinth, standing quite freefrom the apse wall. It will well repay a visit. Good-bye for thepresent, Jackson, good-bye."Mike wandered across to the other side of the house, his gloom visiblydeepened. All alone in a strange school, where they probably playedhopscotch, with a house-master who offered one cups of tea after one'sjourney and talked about chamfered plinths and apses. It was a littlehard.
He strayed about, finding his bearings, and finally came to a roomwhich he took to be the equivalent of the senior day-room at a Wrykynhouse. Everywhere else he had found nothing but emptiness. Evidentlyhe had come by an earlier train than was usual. But this room wasoccupied.
A very long, thin youth, with a solemn face and immaculate clothes,was leaning against the mantelpiece. As Mike entered, he fumbled inhis top left waistcoat pocket, produced an eyeglass attached to acord, and fixed it in his right eye. With the help of this aid tovision he inspected Mike in silence for a while, then, having flickedan invisible speck of dust from the left sleeve of his coat, he spoke.
"Hullo," he said.
He spoke in a tired voice.
"Hullo," said Mike.
"Take a seat," said the immaculate one. "If you don't mind dirtyingyour bags, that's to say. Personally, I don't see any prospect of eversitting down in this place. It looks to me as if they meant to usethese chairs as mustard-and-cress beds. A Nursery Garden in the Home.
That sort of idea. My name," he added pensively, "is Smith. What'syours?"
"Jackson," said Mike.
"Are you the Bully, the Pride of the School, or the Boy who is LedAstray and takes to Drink in Chapter Sixteen?""The last, for choice," said Mike, "but I've only just arrived, so Idon't know.""The boy--what will he become? Are you new here, too, then?""Yes! Why, are you new?""Do I look as if I belonged here? I'm the latest import. Sit downon yonder settee, and I will tell you the painful story of my life.
By the way, before I start, there's just one thing. If you everhave occasion to write to me, would you mind sticking a P at thebeginning of my name? P-s-m-i-t-h. See? There are too many Smiths,and I don't care for Smythe. My father's content to worry along inthe old-fashioned way, but I've decided to strike out a fresh line.
I shall found a new dynasty. The resolve came to me unexpectedly thismorning, as I was buying a simple penn'orth of butterscotch out ofthe automatic machine at Paddington. I jotted it down on the back ofan envelope. In conversation you may address me as Rupert (though Ihope you won't), or simply Smith, the P not being sounded. Cp. thename Zbysco, in which the Z is given a similar miss-in-baulk. See?"Mike said he saw. Psmith thanked him with a certain stately old-worldcourtesy.
"Let us start at the beginning," he resumed. "My infancy. When I wasbut a babe, my eldest sister was bribed with a shilling an hour by mynurse to keep an rye on me, and see that I did not raise Cain. At theend of the first day she struck for one-and six, and got it. We nowpass to my boyhood. At an early age, I was sent to Eton, everybodypredicting a bright career for me. But," said Psmith solemnly, fixingan owl-like gaze on Mike through the eye-glass, "it was not to be.""No?" said Mike.
"No. I was superannuated last term.""Bad luck.""For Eton, yes. But what Eton loses, Sedleigh gains.""But why Sedleigh, of all places?""This is the most painful part of my narrative. It seems that acertain scug in the next village to ours happened last year to collara Balliol----""Not Barlitt!" exclaimed Mike.
"That was the man. The son of the vicar. The vicar told the curate,who told our curate, who told our vicar, who told my father, who sentme off here to get a Balliol too. Do _you_ know Barlitt?""His pater's vicar of our village. It was because his son got aBalliol that I was sent here.""Do you come from Crofton?""Yes.""I've lived at Lower Benford all my life. We are practically long-lostbrothers. Cheer a little, will you?"Mike felt as Robinson Crusoe felt when he met Friday. Here was afellow human being in this desert place. He could almost have embracedPsmith. The very sound of the name Lower Benford was heartening. Hisdislike for his new school was not diminished, but now he felt thatlife there might at least be tolerable.
"Where were you before you came here?" asked Psmith. "You have heardmy painful story. Now tell me yours.""Wrykyn. My pater took me away because I got such a lot of badreports.""My reports from Eton were simply scurrilous. There's a libel actionin every sentence. How do you like this place from what you've seen ofit?""Rotten.""I am with you, Comrade Jackson. You won't mind my calling youComrade, will you? I've just become a Socialist. It's a great scheme.
You ought to be one. You work for the equal distribution of property,and start by collaring all you can and sitting on it. We must sticktogether. We are companions in misfortune. Lost lambs. Sheep that havegone astray. Divided, we fall, together we may worry through. Have youseen Professor Radium yet? I should say Mr. Outwood. What do you thinkof him?""He doesn't seem a bad sort of chap. Bit off his nut. Jawed aboutapses and things.""And thereby," said Psmith, "hangs a tale. I've been making inquiriesof a stout sportsman in a sort of Salvation Army uniform, whom I metin the grounds--he's the school sergeant or something, quite a solidman--and I hear that Comrade Outwood's an archaeological cove. Goesabout the country beating up old ruins and fossils and things. There'san Archaeological Society in the school, run by him. It goes out onhalf-holidays, prowling about, and is allowed to break bounds andgenerally steep itself to the eyebrows in reckless devilry. And,mark you, laddie, if you belong to the Archaeological Society youget off cricket. To get off cricket," said Psmith, dusting his righttrouser-leg, "was the dream of my youth and the aspiration of my riperyears. A noble game, but a bit too thick for me. At Eton I used to haveto field out at the nets till the soles of my boots wore through. Isuppose you are a blood at the game? Play for the school againstLoamshire, and so on.""I'm not going to play here, at any rate," said Mike.
He had made up his mind on this point in the train. There is a certainfascination about making the very worst of a bad job. Achilles knewhis business when he sat in his tent. The determination not to playcricket for Sedleigh as he could not play for Wrykyn gave Mike a sortof pleasure. To stand by with folded arms and a sombre frown, as itwere, was one way of treating the situation, and one not without itsmeed of comfort.
Psmith approved the resolve.
"Stout fellow," he said. "'Tis well. You and I, hand in hand, willsearch the countryside for ruined abbeys. We will snare the elusivefossil together. Above all, we will go out of bounds. We shall thusimprove our minds, and have a jolly good time as well. I shouldn'twonder if one mightn't borrow a gun from some friendly native, and doa bit of rabbit-shooting here and there. From what I saw of ComradeOutwood during our brief interview, I shouldn't think he was one ofthe lynx-eyed contingent. With tact we ought to be able to slip awayfrom the merry throng of fossil-chasers, and do a bit on our ownaccount.""Good idea," said Mike. "We will. A chap at Wrykyn, called Wyatt, usedto break out at night and shoot at cats with an air-pistol.""It would take a lot to make me do that. I am all against anythingthat interferes with my sleep. But rabbits in the daytime is a scheme.
We'll nose about for a gun at the earliest opp. Meanwhile we'd bettergo up to Comrade Outwood, and get our names shoved down for theSociety.""I vote we get some tea first somewhere.""Then let's beat up a study. I suppose they have studies here. Let'sgo and look."They went upstairs. On the first floor there was a passage with doorson either side. Psmith opened the first of these.
"This'll do us well," he said.
It was a biggish room, looking out over the school grounds. There werea couple of deal tables, two empty bookcases, and a looking-glass,hung on a nail.
"Might have been made for us," said Psmith approvingly.
"I suppose it belongs to some rotter.""Not now.""You aren't going to collar it!""That," said Psmith, looking at himself earnestly in the mirror, andstraightening his tie, "is the exact programme. We must stake out ourclaims. This is practical Socialism.""But the real owner's bound to turn up some time or other.""His misfortune, not ours. You can't expect two master-minds like usto pig it in that room downstairs. There are moments when one wants tobe alone. It is imperative that we have a place to retire to after afatiguing day. And now, if you want to be really useful, come and helpme fetch up my box from downstairs. It's got an Etna and variousthings in it."
Psmith, in the matter of decorating a study and preparing tea in it,was rather a critic than an executant. He was full of ideas, but hepreferred to allow Mike to carry them out. It was he who suggestedthat the wooden bar which ran across the window was unnecessary, butit was Mike who wrenched it from its place. Similarly, it was Mike whoabstracted the key from the door of the next study, though the ideawas Psmith's.
"Privacy," said Psmith, as he watched Mike light the Etna, "is what wechiefly need in this age of publicity. If you leave a study doorunlocked in these strenuous times, the first thing you know is,somebody comes right in, sits down, and begins to talk about himself.
I think with a little care we ought to be able to make this room quitedecently comfortable. That putrid calendar must come down, though.
Do you think you could make a long arm, and haul it off the parenttin-tack? Thanks. We make progress. We make progress.""We shall jolly well make it out of the window," said Mike, spooningup tea from a paper bag with a postcard, "if a sort of youngHackenschmidt turns up and claims the study. What are you going to doabout it?""Don't let us worry about it. I have a presentiment that he will be aninsignificant-looking little weed. How are you getting on with theevening meal?""Just ready. What would you give to be at Eton now? I'd give somethingto be at Wrykyn.""These school reports," said Psmith sympathetically, "are the verydickens. Many a bright young lad has been soured by them. Hullo.
What's this, I wonder."A heavy body had plunged against the door, evidently without asuspicion that there would be any resistance. A rattling at the handlefollowed, and a voice outside said, "Dash the door!""Hackenschmidt!" said Mike.
"The weed," said Psmith. "You couldn't make a long arm, could you, andturn the key? We had better give this merchant audience. Remind melater to go on with my remarks on school reports. I had several brightthings to say on the subject."Mike unlocked the door, and flung it open. Framed in the entrance wasa smallish, freckled boy, wearing a bowler hat and carrying a bag. Onhis face was an expression of mingled wrath and astonishment.
Psmith rose courteously from his chair, and moved forward with slowstateliness to do the honours.
"What the dickens," inquired the newcomer, "are you doing here?"[Illustration: "WHAT THE DICKENS ARE YOU DOING HERE?"]
"We were having a little tea," said Psmith, "to restore our tissuesafter our journey. Come in and join us. We keep open house, wePsmiths. Let me introduce you to Comrade Jackson. A stout fellow.
Homely in appearance, perhaps, but one of us. I am Psmith. Your ownname will doubtless come up in the course of general chit-chat overthe tea-cups.""My name's Spiller, and this is my study."Psmith leaned against the mantelpiece, put up his eyeglass, andharangued Spiller in a philosophical vein.
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen," said he, "the saddest are these:
'It might have been.' Too late! That is the bitter cry. If you hadtorn yourself from the bosom of the Spiller family by an earliertrain, all might have been well. But no. Your father held your handand said huskily, 'Edwin, don't leave us!' Your mother clung to youweeping, and said, 'Edwin, stay!' Your sisters----""I want to know what----""Your sisters froze on to your knees like little octopuses (oroctopi), and screamed, 'Don't go, Edwin!' And so," said Psmith, deeplyaffected by his recital, "you stayed on till the later train; and, onarrival, you find strange faces in the familiar room, a people thatknow not Spiller." Psmith went to the table, and cheered himself witha sip of tea. Spiller's sad case had moved him greatly.
The victim of Fate seemed in no way consoled.
"It's beastly cheek, that's what I call it. Are you new chaps?""The very latest thing," said Psmith.
"Well, it's beastly cheek."Mike's outlook on life was of the solid, practical order. He wentstraight to the root of the matter.
"What are you going to do about it?" he asked.
Spiller evaded the question.
"It's beastly cheek," he repeated. "You can't go about the placebagging studies.""But we do," said Psmith. "In this life, Comrade Spiller, we must beprepared for every emergency. We must distinguish between the unusualand the impossible. It is unusual for people to go about the placebagging studies, so you have rashly ordered your life on theassumption that it is impossible. Error! Ah, Spiller, Spiller, letthis be a lesson to you.""Look here, I tell you what it----""I was in a motor with a man once. I said to him: 'What would happenif you trod on that pedal thing instead of that other pedal thing?' Hesaid, 'I couldn't. One's the foot-brake, and the other's theaccelerator.' 'But suppose you did?' I said. 'I wouldn't,' he said.
'Now we'll let her rip.' So he stamped on the accelerator. Only itturned out to be the foot-brake after all, and we stopped dead, andskidded into a ditch. The advice I give to every young man startinglife is: 'Never confuse the unusual and the impossible.' Take thepresent case. If you had only realised the possibility of somebodysome day collaring your study, you might have thought out dozens ofsound schemes for dealing with the matter. As it is, you areunprepared. The thing comes on you as a surprise. The cry goes round:
'Spiller has been taken unawares. He cannot cope with the situation.'""Can't I! I'll----""What _are_ you going to do about it?" said Mike.
"All I know is, I'm going to have it. It was Simpson's last term, andSimpson's left, and I'm next on the house list, so, of course, it's mystudy.""But what steps," said Psmith, "are you going to take? Spiller, theman of Logic, we know. But what of Spiller, the Man of Action? Howdo you intend to set about it? Force is useless. I was saying toComrade Jackson before you came in, that I didn't mind betting youwere an insignificant-looking little weed. And you _are_ aninsignificant-looking little weed.""We'll see what Outwood says about it.""Not an unsound scheme. By no means a scaly project. Comrade Jacksonand myself were about to interview him upon another point. We may aswell all go together."The trio made their way to the Presence, Spiller pink and determined,Mike sullen, Psmith particularly debonair. He hummed lightly as hewalked, and now and then pointed out to Spiller objects of interest bythe wayside.
Mr. Outwood received them with the motherly warmth which was evidentlythe leading characteristic of his normal manner.
"Ah, Spiller," he said. "And Smith, and Jackson. I am glad to see thatyou have already made friends.""Spiller's, sir," said Psmith, laying a hand patronisingly onthe study-claimer's shoulder--a proceeding violently resented bySpiller--"is a character one cannot help but respect. His natureexpands before one like some beautiful flower."Mr. Outwood received this eulogy with rather a startled expression,and gazed at the object of the tribute in a surprised way.
"Er--quite so, Smith, quite so," he said at last. "I like to see boysin my house friendly towards one another.""There is no vice in Spiller," pursued Psmith earnestly. "His heart isthe heart of a little child.""Please, sir," burst out this paragon of all the virtues, "I----""But it was not entirely with regard to Spiller that I wished to speakto you, sir, if you were not too busy.""Not at all, Smith, not at all. Is there anything----""Please, sir--" began Spiller.
"I understand, sir," said Psmith, "that there is an ArchaeologicalSociety in the school."Mr. Outwood's eyes sparkled behind their pince-nez. It was adisappointment to him that so few boys seemed to wish to belong to hischosen band. Cricket and football, games that left him cold, appearedto be the main interest in their lives. It was but rarely that hecould induce new boys to join. His colleague, Mr. Downing, whopresided over the School Fire Brigade, never had any difficulty infinding support. Boys came readily at his call. Mr. Outwood ponderedwistfully on this at times, not knowing that the Fire Brigade owed itssupport to the fact that it provided its light-hearted members withperfectly unparalleled opportunities for ragging, while his own band,though small, were in the main earnest.
"Yes, Smith." he said. "Yes. We have a small Archaeological Society.
I--er--in a measure look after it. Perhaps you would care to become amember?""Please, sir--" said Spiller.
"One moment, Spiller. Do you want to join, Smith?""Intensely, sir. Archaeology fascinates me. A grand pursuit, sir.""Undoubtedly, Smith. I am very pleased, very pleased indeed. I willput down your name at once.""And Jackson's, sir.""Jackson, too!" Mr. Outwood beamed. "I am delighted. Most delighted.
This is capital. This enthusiasm is most capital.""Spiller, sir," said Psmith sadly, "I have been unable to induce tojoin.""Oh, he is one of our oldest members.""Ah," said Psmith, tolerantly, "that accounts for it.""Please, sir--" said Spiller.
"One moment, Spiller. We shall have the first outing of the term onSaturday. We intend to inspect the Roman Camp at Embury Hill, twomiles from the school.""We shall be there, sir.""Capital!""Please, sir--" said Spiller.
"One moment, Spiller," said Psmith. "There is just one other matter,if you could spare the time, sir.""Certainly, Smith. What is that?""Would there be any objection to Jackson and myself taking Simpson'sold study?""By all means, Smith. A very good idea.""Yes, sir. It would give us a place where we could work quietly in theevenings.""Quite so. Quite so.""Thank you very much, sir. We will move our things in.""Thank you very much, sir," said Mike.
"Please, sir," shouted Spiller, "aren't I to have it? I'm next on thelist, sir. I come next after Simpson. Can't I have it?""I'm afraid I have already promised it to Smith, Spiller. You shouldhave spoken before.""But, sir----"Psmith eyed the speaker pityingly.
"This tendency to delay, Spiller," he said, "is your besetting fault.
Correct it, Edwin. Fight against it."He turned to Mr. Outwood.
"We should, of course, sir, always be glad to see Spiller in ourstudy. He would always find a cheery welcome waiting there for him.
There is no formality between ourselves and Spiller.""Quite so. An excellent arrangement, Smith. I like this spirit ofcomradeship in my house. Then you will be with us on Saturday?""On Saturday, sir.""All this sort of thing, Spiller," said Psmith, as they closed thedoor, "is very, very trying for a man of culture. Look us up in ourstudy one of these afternoons."
There are few pleasures, said Psmith, as he resumed his favouriteposition against the mantelpiece and surveyed the commandeered studywith the pride of a householder, "keener to the reflective mind thansitting under one's own roof-tree. This place would have been wastedon Spiller; he would not have appreciated it properly."Mike was finishing his tea. "You're a jolly useful chap to have by youin a crisis, Smith," he said with approval. "We ought to have knowneach other before.""The loss was mine," said Psmith courteously. "We will now, with yourpermission, face the future for awhile. I suppose you realise that weare now to a certain extent up against it. Spiller's hot Spanish bloodis not going to sit tight and do nothing under a blow like this.""What can he do? Outwood's given us the study.""What would you have done if somebody had bagged your study?""Made it jolly hot for them!""So will Comrade Spiller. I take it that he will collect a gang andmake an offensive movement against us directly he can. To allappearances we are in a fairly tight place. It all depends on how bigComrade Spiller's gang will be. I don't like rows, but I'm prepared totake on a reasonable number of bravoes in defence of the home."Mike intimated that he was with him on the point. "The difficulty is,though," he said, "about when we leave this room. I mean, we're allright while we stick here, but we can't stay all night.""That's just what I was about to point out when you put it with suchadmirable clearness. Here we are in a stronghold, they can only get atus through the door, and we can lock that.""And jam a chair against it.""_And_, as you rightly remark, jam a chair against it. But whatof the nightfall? What of the time when we retire to our dormitory?""Or dormitories. I say, if we're in separate rooms we shall be in thecart."Psmith eyed Mike with approval. "He thinks of everything! You're theman, Comrade Jackson, to conduct an affair of this kind--suchforesight! such resource! We must see to this at once; if they put usin different rooms we're done--we shall be destroyed singly in thewatches of the night.""We'd better nip down to the matron right off.""Not the matron--Comrade Outwood is the man. We are as sons to him;there is nothing he can deny us. I'm afraid we are quite spoiling hisafternoon by these interruptions, but we must rout him out once more."As they got up, the door handle rattled again, and this time therefollowed a knocking.
"This must be an emissary of Comrade Spiller's," said Psmith. "Let usparley with the man."Mike unlocked the door. A light-haired youth with a cheerful, rathervacant face and a receding chin strolled into the room, and stoodgiggling with his hands in his pockets.
"I just came up to have a look at you," he explained.
"If you move a little to the left," said Psmith, "you will catch thelight and shade effects on Jackson's face better."The new-comer giggled with renewed vigour. "Are you the chap with theeyeglass who jaws all the time?""I _do_ wear an eyeglass," said Psmith; "as to the rest of thedescription----""My name's Jellicoe.""Mine is Psmith--P-s-m-i-t-h--one of the Shropshire Psmiths. Theobject on the skyline is Comrade Jackson.""Old Spiller," giggled Jellicoe, "is cursing you like anythingdownstairs. You _are_ chaps! Do you mean to say you simply baggedhis study? He's making no end of a row about it.""Spiller's fiery nature is a byword," said Psmith.
"What's he going to do?" asked Mike, in his practical way.
"He's going to get the chaps to turn you out.""As I suspected," sighed Psmith, as one mourning over the frailty ofhuman nature. "About how many horny-handed assistants should you saythat he would be likely to bring? Will you, for instance, join theglad throng?""Me? No fear! I think Spiller's an ass.""There's nothing like a common thought for binding people together.
_I_ think Spiller's an ass.""How many _will_ there be, then?" asked Mike.
"He might get about half a dozen, not more, because most of the chapsdon't see why they should sweat themselves just because Spiller'sstudy has been bagged.""Sturdy common sense," said Psmith approvingly, "seems to be the chiefvirtue of the Sedleigh character.""We shall be able to tackle a crowd like that," said Mike. "The onlything is we must get into the same dormitory.""This is where Comrade Jellicoe's knowledge of the local geographywill come in useful. Do you happen to know of any snug little room,with, say, about four beds in it? How many dormitories are there?""Five--there's one with three beds in it, only it belongs to threechaps.""I believe in the equal distribution of property. We will go toComrade Outwood and stake out another claim."Mr. Outwood received them even more beamingly than before. "Yes,Smith?" he said.
"We must apologise for disturbing you, sir----""Not at all, Smith, not at all! I like the boys in my house to come tome when they wish for my advice or help.""We were wondering, sir, if you would have any objection to Jackson,Jellicoe and myself sharing the dormitory with the three beds in it. Avery warm friendship--" explained Psmith, patting the gurglingJellicoe kindly on the shoulder, "has sprung up between Jackson,Jellicoe and myself.""You make friends easily, Smith. I like to see it--I like to see it.""And we can have the room, sir?""Certainly--certainly! Tell the matron as you go down.""And now," said Psmith, as they returned to the study, "we may saythat we are in a fairly winning position. A vote of thanks to ComradeJellicoe for his valuable assistance.""You _are_ a chap!" said Jellicoe.
The handle began to revolve again.
"That door," said Psmith, "is getting a perfect incubus! It cuts intoone's leisure cruelly."This time it was a small boy. "They told me to come up and tell you tocome down," he said.
Psmith looked at him searchingly through his eyeglass.
"Who?""The senior day-room chaps.""Spiller?""Spiller and Robinson and Stone, and some other chaps.""They want us to speak to them?""They told me to come up and tell you to come down.""Go and give Comrade Spiller our compliments and say that we can'tcome down, but shall be delighted to see him up here. Things," hesaid, as the messenger departed, "are beginning to move. Better leavethe door open, I think; it will save trouble. Ah, come in, ComradeSpiller, what can we do for you?"Spiller advanced into the study; the others waited outside, crowdingin the doorway.
"Look here," said Spiller, "are you going to clear out of here ornot?""After Mr. Outwood's kindly thought in giving us the room? You suggesta black and ungrateful action, Comrade Spiller.""You'll get it hot, if you don't.""We'll risk it," said Mike.
Jellicoe giggled in the background; the drama in the atmosphereappealed to him. His was a simple and appreciative mind.
"Come on, you chaps," cried Spiller suddenly.
There was an inward rush on the enemy's part, but Mike had beenwatching. He grabbed Spiller by the shoulders and ran him back againstthe advancing crowd. For a moment the doorway was blocked, then theweight and impetus of Mike and Spiller prevailed, the enemy gave back,and Mike, stepping into the room again, slammed the door and lockedit.
"A neat piece of work," said Psmith approvingly, adjusting his tie atthe looking-glass. "The preliminaries may now be considered over, thefirst shot has been fired. The dogs of war are now loose."A heavy body crashed against the door.
"They'll have it down," said Jellicoe.
"We must act, Comrade Jackson! Might I trouble you just to turn thatkey quietly, and the handle, and then to stand by for the nextattack."There was a scrambling of feet in the passage outside, and then arepetition of the onslaught on the door. This time, however, the door,instead of resisting, swung open, and the human battering-ramstaggered through into the study. Mike, turning after re-locking thedoor, was just in time to see Psmith, with a display of energy ofwhich one would not have believed him capable, grip the invaderscientifically by an arm and a leg.
Mike jumped to help, but it was needless; the captive was alreadyon the window-sill. As Mike arrived, Psmith dropped him on to theflower-bed below.
Psmith closed the window gently and turned to Jellicoe. "Who was ourguest?" he asked, dusting the knees of his trousers where they hadpressed against the wall.
"Robinson. I say, you _are_ a chap!""Robinson, was it? Well, we are always glad to see Comrade Robinson,always. I wonder if anybody else is thinking of calling?"Apparently frontal attack had been abandoned. Whisperings could beheard in the corridor.
Somebody hammered on the door.
"Yes?" called Psmith patiently.
"You'd better come out, you know; you'll only get it hotter if youdon't.""Leave us, Spiller; we would be alone."A bell rang in the distance.
"Tea," said Jellicoe; "we shall have to go now.""They won't do anything till after tea, I shouldn't think," said Mike.
"There's no harm in going out."The passage was empty when they opened the door; the call to food wasevidently a thing not to be treated lightly by the enemy.
In the dining-room the beleaguered garrison were the object of generalattention. Everybody turned to look at them as they came in. It wasplain that the study episode had been a topic of conversation.
Spiller's face was crimson, and Robinson's coat-sleeve still boretraces of garden mould.
Mike felt rather conscious of the eyes, but Psmith was in his element.
His demeanour throughout the meal was that of some whimsical monarchcondescending for a freak to revel with his humble subjects.
Towards the end of the meal Psmith scribbled a note and passed it toMike. It read: "Directly this is over, nip upstairs as quickly as youcan."Mike followed the advice; they were first out of the room. When theyhad been in the study a few moments, Jellicoe knocked at the door.
"Lucky you two cut away so quick," he said. "They were going to tryand get you into the senior day-room and scrag you there.""This," said Psmith, leaning against the mantelpiece, "is exciting,but it can't go on. We have got for our sins to be in this place for awhole term, and if we are going to do the Hunted Fawn business all thetime, life in the true sense of the word will become an impossibility.
My nerves are so delicately attuned that the strain would simply reducethem to hash. We are not prepared to carry on a long campaign--the thingmust be settled at once.""Shall we go down to the senior day-room, and have it out?" said Mike.
"No, we will play the fixture on our own ground. I think we may takeit as tolerably certain that Comrade Spiller and his hired ruffianswill try to corner us in the dormitory to-night. Well, of course, wecould fake up some sort of barricade for the door, but then we shouldhave all the trouble over again to-morrow and the day after that.
Personally I don't propose to be chivvied about indefinitely likethis, so I propose that we let them come into the dormitory, and seewhat happens. Is this meeting with me?""I think that's sound," said Mike. "We needn't drag Jellicoe into it.""As a matter of fact--if you don't mind--" began that man of peace.
"Quite right," said Psmith; "this is not Comrade Jellicoe's scene atall; he has got to spend the term in the senior day-room, whereas wehave our little wooden _chalet_ to retire to in times of stress.
Comrade Jellicoe must stand out of the game altogether. We shall beglad of his moral support, but otherwise, _ne pas_. And now, asthere won't be anything doing till bedtime, I think I'll collar thistable and write home and tell my people that all is well with theirRupert."
Jellicoe, that human encyclopaedia, consulted on the probablemovements of the enemy, deposed that Spiller, retiring at ten, wouldmake for Dormitory One in the same passage, where Robinson also had abed. The rest of the opposing forces were distributed among other andmore distant rooms. It was probable, therefore, that Dormitory Onewould be the rendezvous. As to the time when an attack might beexpected, it was unlikely that it would occur before half-past eleven.
Mr. Outwood went the round of the dormitories at eleven.
"And touching," said Psmith, "the matter of noise, must this businessbe conducted in a subdued and _sotto voce_ manner, or may we letourselves go a bit here and there?""I shouldn't think old Outwood's likely to hear you--he sleeps milesaway on the other side of the house. He never hears anything. We oftenrag half the night and nothing happens."This appears to be a thoroughly nice, well-conducted establishment.
What would my mother say if she could see her Rupert in the midst ofthese reckless youths!""All the better," said Mike; "we don't want anybody butting in andstopping the show before it's half started.""Comrade Jackson's Berserk blood is up--I can hear it sizzling. Iquite agree these things are all very disturbing and painful, but it'sas well to do them thoroughly when one's once in for them. Is therenobody else who might interfere with our gambols?""Barnes might," said Jellicoe, "only he won't.""Who is Barnes?""Head of the house--a rotter. He's in a funk of Stone and Robinson;they rag him; he'll simply sit tight.""Then I think," said Psmith placidly, "we may look forward to a verypleasant evening. Shall we be moving?"Mr. Outwood paid his visit at eleven, as predicted by Jellicoe,beaming vaguely into the darkness over a candle, and disappearedagain, closing the door.
"How about that door?" said Mike. "Shall we leave it open for them?""Not so, but far otherwise. If it's shut we shall hear them at it whenthey come. Subject to your approval, Comrade Jackson, I have evolvedthe following plan of action. I always ask myself on these occasions,'What would Napoleon have done?' I think Napoleon would have sat in achair by his washhand-stand, which is close to the door; he would haveposted you by your washhand-stand, and he would have instructedComrade Jellicoe, directly he heard the door-handle turned, to givehis celebrated imitation of a dormitory breathing heavily in itssleep. He would then----""I tell you what," said Mike, "how about tying a string at the top ofthe steps?""Yes, Napoleon would have done that, too. Hats off to Comrade Jackson,the man with the big brain!"The floor of the dormitory was below the level of the door. There werethree steps leading down to it. Psmith lit a candle and they examinedthe ground. The leg of a wardrobe and the leg of Jellicoe's bed madeit possible for the string to be fastened in a satisfactory manneracross the lower step. Psmith surveyed the result with approval.
"Dashed neat!" he said. "Practically the sunken road which dished theCuirassiers at Waterloo. I seem to see Comrade Spiller coming one ofthe finest purlers in the world's history.""If they've got a candle----""They won't have. If they have, stand by with your water-jug and douseit at once; then they'll charge forward and all will be well. If theyhave no candle, fling the water at a venture--fire into the brown!
Lest we forget, I'll collar Comrade Jellicoe's jug now and keep ithandy. A couple of sheets would also not be amiss--we will enmesh theenemy!""Right ho!" said Mike.
"These humane preparations being concluded," said Psmith, "we willretire to our posts and wait. Comrade Jellicoe, don't forget tobreathe like an asthmatic sheep when you hear the door opened; theymay wait at the top of the steps, listening.""You _are_ a chap!" said Jellicoe.
Waiting in the dark for something to happen is always a tryingexperience, especially if, as on this occasion, silence is essential.
Mike found his thoughts wandering back to the vigil he had kept withMr. Wain at Wrykyn on the night when Wyatt had come in through thewindow and found authority sitting on his bed, waiting for him. Mikewas tired after his journey, and he had begun to doze when he wasjerked back to wakefulness by the stealthy turning of the door-handle;the faintest rustle from Psmith's direction followed, and a slightgiggle, succeeded by a series of deep breaths, showed that Jellicoe,too, had heard the noise.
There was a creaking sound.
It was pitch-dark in the dormitory, but Mike could follow the invaders'
movements as clearly as if it had been broad daylight. They had openedthe door and were listening. Jellicoe's breathing grew more asthmatic;he was flinging himself into his part with the whole-heartedness of thetrue artist.
The creak was followed by a sound of whispering, then another creak.
The enemy had advanced to the top step.... Another creak.... Thevanguard had reached the second step.... In another moment----CRASH!
And at that point the proceedings may be said to have formally opened.
A struggling mass bumped against Mike's shins as he rose from hischair; he emptied his jug on to this mass, and a yell of anguishshowed that the contents had got to the right address.
Then a hand grabbed his ankle and he went down, a million sparksdancing before his eyes as a fist, flying out at a venture, caught himon the nose.
Mike had not been well-disposed towards the invaders before, but nowhe ran amok, hitting out right and left at random. His right missed,but his left went home hard on some portion of somebody's anatomy. Akick freed his ankle and he staggered to his feet. At the same momenta sudden increase in the general volume of noise spoke eloquently ofgood work that was being put in by Psmith.
Even at that crisis, Mike could not help feeling that if a row of thiscalibre did not draw Mr. Outwood from his bed, he must be an unusualkind of house-master.
He plunged forward again with outstretched arms, and stumbled and fellover one of the on-the-floor section of the opposing force. Theyseized each other earnestly and rolled across the room till Mike,contriving to secure his adversary's head, bumped it on the floor withsuch abandon that, with a muffled yell, the other let go, and for thesecond time he rose. As he did so he was conscious of a curiousthudding sound that made itself heard through the other assortednoises of the battle.
All this time the fight had gone on in the blackest darkness, but nowa light shone on the proceedings. Interested occupants of otherdormitories, roused from their slumbers, had come to observe thesport. They were crowding in the doorway with a candle.
By the light of this Mike got a swift view of the theatre of war. Theenemy appeared to number five. The warrior whose head Mike had bumpedon the floor was Robinson, who was sitting up feeling his skull in agingerly fashion. To Mike's right, almost touching him, was Stone. Inthe direction of the door, Psmith, wielding in his right hand the cordof a dressing-gown, was engaging the remaining three with a patientsmile. They were clad in pyjamas, and appeared to be feeling thedressing-gown cord acutely.
The sudden light dazed both sides momentarily. The defence was thefirst to recover, Mike, with a swing, upsetting Stone, and Psmith,having seized and emptied Jellicoe's jug over Spiller, getting to workagain with the cord in a manner that roused the utmost enthusiasm ofthe spectators.
[Illustration: PSMITH SEIZED AND EMPTIED JELLICOE'S JUG OVER SPILLER]
Agility seemed to be the leading feature of Psmith's tactics. He waseverywhere--on Mike's bed, on his own, on Jellicoe's (drawing apassionate complaint from that non-combatant, on whose face heinadvertently trod), on the floor--he ranged the room, sowingdestruction.
The enemy were disheartened; they had started with the idea that thiswas to be a surprise attack, and it was disconcerting to find thegarrison armed at all points. Gradually they edged to the door, and afinal rush sent them through.
"Hold the door for a second," cried Psmith, and vanished. Mike wasalone in the doorway.
It was a situation which exactly suited his frame of mind; he stoodalone in direct opposition to the community into which Fate hadpitchforked him so abruptly. He liked the feeling; for the first timesince his father had given him his views upon school reports thatmorning in the Easter holidays, he felt satisfied with life. He hoped,outnumbered as he was, that the enemy would come on again and not givethe thing up in disgust; he wanted more.
On an occasion like this there is rarely anything approachingconcerted action on the part of the aggressors. When the attack came,it was not a combined attack; Stone, who was nearest to the door, madea sudden dash forward, and Mike hit him under the chin.
Stone drew back, and there was another interval for rest andreflection.
It was interrupted by the reappearance of Psmith, who strolled backalong the passage swinging his dressing-gown cord as if it were someclouded cane.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Comrade Jackson," he said politely. "Dutycalled me elsewhere. With the kindly aid of a guide who knows the lieof the land, I have been making a short tour of the dormitories. Ihave poured divers jugfuls of water over Comrade Spiller's bed,Comrade Robinson's bed, Comrade Stone's--Spiller, Spiller, these areharsh words; where you pick them up I can't think--not from me. Well,well, I suppose there must be an end to the pleasantest of functions.
Good-night, good-night."The door closed behind Mike and himself. For ten minutes shufflingsand whisperings went on in the corridor, but nobody touched thehandle.
Then there was a sound of retreating footsteps, and silence reigned.
On the following morning there was a notice on the house-board. Itran:
INDOOR GAMESDormitory-raiders are informed that in future neitherMr. Psmith nor Mr. Jackson will be at home to visitors.
This nuisance must now cease.
R. PSMITH.
M. JACKSON.
On the same morning Mike met Adair for the first time.
He was going across to school with Psmith and Jellicoe, when a groupof three came out of the gate of the house next door.
"That's Adair," said Jellicoe, "in the middle."His voice had assumed a tone almost of awe.
"Who's Adair?" asked Mike.
"Captain of cricket, and lots of other things."Mike could only see the celebrity's back. He had broad shoulders andwiry, light hair, almost white. He walked well, as if he were used torunning. Altogether a fit-looking sort of man. Even Mike's jaundicedeye saw that.
As a matter of fact, Adair deserved more than a casual glance. He wasthat rare type, the natural leader. Many boys and men, if accident, orthe passage of time, places them in a position where they are expectedto lead, can handle the job without disaster; but that is a verydifferent thing from being a born leader. Adair was of the sort thatcomes to the top by sheer force of character and determination. Hewas not naturally clever at work, but he had gone at it with a doggedresolution which had carried him up the school, and landed him high inthe Sixth. As a cricketer he was almost entirely self-taught. Naturehad given him a good eye, and left the thing at that. Adair'sdoggedness had triumphed over her failure to do her work thoroughly.
At the cost of more trouble than most people give to their life-workhe had made himself into a bowler. He read the authorities, andwatched first-class players, and thought the thing out on his ownaccount, and he divided the art of bowling into three sections. First,and most important--pitch. Second on the list--break. Third--pace. Heset himself to acquire pitch. He acquired it. Bowling at his own paceand without any attempt at break, he could now drop the ball on anenvelope seven times out of ten.
Break was a more uncertain quantity. Sometimes he could get it at theexpense of pitch, sometimes at the expense of pace. Some days he couldget all three, and then he was an uncommonly bad man to face onanything but a plumb wicket.
Running he had acquired in a similar manner. He had nothingapproaching style, but he had twice won the mile and half-mile at theSports off elegant runners, who knew all about stride and the correcttiming of the sprints and all the rest of it.
Briefly, he was a worker. He had heart.
A boy of Adair's type is always a force in a school. In a big publicschool of six or seven hundred, his influence is felt less; but in asmall school like Sedleigh he is like a tidal wave, sweeping allbefore him. There were two hundred boys at Sedleigh, and there was notone of them in all probability who had not, directly or indirectly,been influenced by Adair. As a small boy his sphere was not large, butthe effects of his work began to be apparent even then. It is humannature to want to get something which somebody else obviously valuesvery much; and when it was observed by members of his form that Adairwas going to great trouble and inconvenience to secure a place in theform eleven or fifteen, they naturally began to think, too, that itwas worth being in those teams. The consequence was that his formalways played hard. This made other forms play hard. And the netresult was that, when Adair succeeded to the captaincy of footballand cricket in the same year, Sedleigh, as Mr. Downing, Adair'shouse-master and the nearest approach to a cricket-master thatSedleigh possessed, had a fondness for saying, was a keen school.
As a whole, it both worked and played with energy.
All it wanted now was opportunity.
This Adair was determined to give it. He had that passionate fondnessfor his school which every boy is popularly supposed to have, butwhich really is implanted in about one in every thousand. The averagepublic-school boy _likes_ his school. He hopes it will lickBedford at footer and Malvern at cricket, but he rather bets it won't.
He is sorry to leave, and he likes going back at the end of theholidays, but as for any passionate, deep-seated love of the place, hewould think it rather bad form than otherwise. If anybody came up tohim, slapped him on the back, and cried, "Come along, Jenkins, my boy!
Play up for the old school, Jenkins! The dear old school! The oldplace you love so!" he would feel seriously ill.
Adair was the exception.
To Adair, Sedleigh was almost a religion. Both his parents were dead;his guardian, with whom he spent the holidays, was a man withneuralgia at one end of him and gout at the other; and the only reallypleasant times Adair had had, as far back as he could remember, heowed to Sedleigh. The place had grown on him, absorbed him. WhereMike, violently transplanted from Wrykyn, saw only a wretched littlehole not to be mentioned in the same breath with Wrykyn, Adair,dreaming of the future, saw a colossal establishment, a public schoolamong public schools, a lump of human radium, shooting out Blues andBalliol Scholars year after year without ceasing.
It would not be so till long after he was gone and forgotten, but hedid not mind that. His devotion to Sedleigh was purely unselfish. Hedid not want fame. All he worked for was that the school should growand grow, keener and better at games and more prosperous year by year,till it should take its rank among _the_ schools, and to be anOld Sedleighan should be a badge passing its owner everywhere.
"He's captain of cricket and footer," said Jellicoe impressively.
"He's in the shooting eight. He's won the mile and half two yearsrunning. He would have boxed at Aldershot last term, only he sprainedhis wrist. And he plays fives jolly well!""Sort of little tin god," said Mike, taking a violent dislike to Adairfrom that moment.
Mike's actual acquaintance with this all-round man dated from thedinner-hour that day. Mike was walking to the house with Psmith.
Psmith was a little ruffled on account of a slight passage-of-arms hehad had with his form-master during morning school.
"'There's a P before the Smith,' I said to him. 'Ah, P. Smith, I see,'
replied the goat. 'Not Peasmith,' I replied, exercising wonderfulself-restraint, 'just Psmith.' It took me ten minutes to drive thething into the man's head; and when I _had_ driven it in, he sentme out of the room for looking at him through my eye-glass. ComradeJackson, I fear me we have fallen among bad men. I suspect that we aregoing to be much persecuted by scoundrels.""Both you chaps play cricket, I suppose?"They turned. It was Adair. Seeing him face to face, Mike was aware ofa pair of very bright blue eyes and a square jaw. In any other placeand mood he would have liked Adair at sight. His prejudice, however,against all things Sedleighan was too much for him. "I don't," he saidshortly.
"Haven't you _ever_ played?""My little sister and I sometimes play with a soft ball at home."Adair looked sharply at him. A temper was evidently one of hisnumerous qualities.
"Oh," he said. "Well, perhaps you wouldn't mind turning out thisafternoon and seeing what you can do with a hard ball--if you canmanage without your little sister.""I should think the form at this place would be about on a level withhers. But I don't happen to be playing cricket, as I think I toldyou."Adair's jaw grew squarer than ever. Mike was wearing a gloomy scowl.
Psmith joined suavely in the dialogue.
"My dear old comrades," he said, "don't let us brawl over this matter.
This is a time for the honeyed word, the kindly eye, and the pleasantsmile. Let me explain to Comrade Adair. Speaking for Comrade Jacksonand myself, we should both be delighted to join in the mimic warfareof our National Game, as you suggest, only the fact is, we happen tobe the Young Archaeologists. We gave in our names last night. When youare being carried back to the pavilion after your century againstLoamshire--do you play Loamshire?--we shall be grubbing in the hardground for ruined abbeys. The old choice between Pleasure and Duty,Comrade Adair. A Boy's Cross-Roads.""Then you won't play?""No," said Mike.
"Archaeology," said Psmith, with a deprecatory wave of the hand, "willbrook no divided allegiance from her devotees."Adair turned, and walked on.
Scarcely had he gone, when another voice hailed them with preciselythe same question.
"Both you fellows are going to play cricket, eh?"It was a master. A short, wiry little man with a sharp nose and ageneral resemblance, both in manner and appearance, to an excitablebullfinch.
"I saw Adair speaking to you. I suppose you will both play. I likeevery new boy to begin at once. The more new blood we have, thebetter. We want keenness here. We are, above all, a keen school. Iwant every boy to be keen.""We are, sir," said Psmith, with fervour.
"Excellent.""On archaeology."Mr. Downing--for it was no less a celebrity--started, as one whoperceives a loathly caterpillar in his salad.
"Archaeology!""We gave in our names to Mr. Outwood last night, sir. Archaeology is apassion with us, sir. When we heard that there was a society here, wewent singing about the house.""I call it an unnatural pursuit for boys," said Mr. Downingvehemently. "I don't like it. I tell you I don't like it. It is notfor me to interfere with one of my colleagues on the staff, but I tellyou frankly that in my opinion it is an abominable waste of time for aboy. It gets him into idle, loafing habits.""I never loaf, sir," said Psmith.
"I was not alluding to you in particular. I was referring to theprinciple of the thing. A boy ought to be playing cricket with otherboys, not wandering at large about the country, probably smoking andgoing into low public-houses.""A very wild lot, sir, I fear, the Archaeological Society here,"sighed Psmith, shaking his head.
"If you choose to waste your time, I suppose I can't hinder you. Butin my opinion it is foolery, nothing else."He stumped off.
"Now _he's_ cross," said Psmith, looking after him. "I'm afraidwe're getting ourselves disliked here.""Good job, too.""At any rate, Comrade Outwood loves us. Let's go on and see what sortof a lunch that large-hearted fossil-fancier is going to give us."
There was more than one moment during the first fortnight of term whenMike found himself regretting the attitude he had imposed upon himselfwith regard to Sedleighan cricket. He began to realise the eternaltruth of the proverb about half a loaf and no bread. In the firstflush of his resentment against his new surroundings he had refused toplay cricket. And now he positively ached for a game. Any sort of agame. An innings for a Kindergarten _v._ the Second Eleven of aHome of Rest for Centenarians would have soothed him. There weretimes, when the sun shone, and he caught sight of white flannels on agreen ground, and heard the "plonk" of bat striking ball, when he feltlike rushing to Adair and shouting, "I _will_ be good. I was inthe Wrykyn team three years, and had an average of over fifty the lasttwo seasons. Lead me to the nearest net, and let me feel a bat in myhands again."But every time he shrank from such a climb down. It couldn't be done.
What made it worse was that he saw, after watching behind the netsonce or twice, that Sedleigh cricket was not the childish burlesque ofthe game which he had been rash enough to assume that it must be.
Numbers do not make good cricket. They only make the presence of goodcricketers more likely, by the law of averages.
Mike soon saw that cricket was by no means an unknown art at Sedleigh.
Adair, to begin with, was a very good bowler indeed. He was not aBurgess, but Burgess was the only Wrykyn bowler whom, in his threeyears' experience of the school, Mike would have placed above him. Hewas a long way better than Neville-Smith, and Wyatt, and Milton, andthe others who had taken wickets for Wrykyn.
The batting was not so good, but there were some quite capable men.
Barnes, the head of Outwood's, he who preferred not to interfere withStone and Robinson, was a. mild, rather timid-looking youth--notunlike what Mr. Outwood must have been as a boy--but he knew how tokeep balls out of his wicket. He was a good bat of the old ploddingtype.
Stone and Robinson themselves, that swash-buckling pair, who nowtreated Mike and Psmith with cold but consistent politeness, were bothfair batsmen, and Stone was a good slow bowler.
There were other exponents of the game, mostly in Downing's house.
Altogether, quite worthy colleagues even for a man who had been a starat Wrykyn.
* * * * *One solitary overture Mike made during that first fortnight. He didnot repeat the experiment. It was on a Thursday afternoon, afterschool. The day was warm, but freshened by an almost imperceptiblebreeze. The air was full of the scent of the cut grass which lay inlittle heaps behind the nets. This is the real cricket scent, whichcalls to one like the very voice of the game.
Mike, as he sat there watching, could stand it no longer.
He went up to Adair.
"May I have an innings at this net?" he asked. He was embarrassed andnervous, and was trying not to show it. The natural result was thathis manner was offensively abrupt.
Adair was taking off his pads after his innings. He looked up. "Thisnet," it may be observed, was the first eleven net.
"What?" he said.
Mike repeated his request. More abruptly this time, from increasedembarrassment.
"This is the first eleven net," said Adair coldly. "Go in after Lodgeover there.""Over there" was the end net, where frenzied novices were bowling on acorrugated pitch to a red-haired youth with enormous feet, who lookedas if he were taking his first lesson at the game.
Mike walked away without a word.
* * * * *The Archaeological Society expeditions, even though they carried withthem the privilege of listening to Psmith's views on life, proved buta poor substitute for cricket. Psmith, who had no counter-attractionshouting to him that he ought to be elsewhere, seemed to enjoy themhugely, but Mike almost cried sometimes from boredom. It was notalways possible to slip away from the throng, for Mr. Outwoodevidently looked upon them as among the very faithful, and kept themby his aide.
Mike on these occasions was silent and jumpy, his brow "sicklied o'erwith the pale cast of care." But Psmith followed his leader with thepleased and indulgent air of a father whose infant son is showing himround the garden. Psmith's attitude towards archaeological researchstruck a new note in the history of that neglected science. He wasamiable, but patronising. He patronised fossils, and he patronisedruins. If he had been confronted with the Great Pyramid, he would havepatronised that.
He seemed to be consumed by a thirst for knowledge.
That this was not altogether a genuine thirst was proved on the thirdexpedition. Mr. Outwood and his band were pecking away at the site ofan old Roman camp. Psmith approached Mike.
"Having inspired confidence," he said, "by the docility of ourdemeanour, let us slip away, and brood apart for awhile. Roman camps,to be absolutely accurate, give me the pip. And I never want to seeanother putrid fossil in my life. Let us find some shady nook where aman may lie on his back for a bit."Mike, over whom the proceedings connected with the Roman camp had longsince begun to shed a blue depression, offered no opposition, and theystrolled away down the hill.
Looking back, they saw that the archaeologists were still hard at it.
Their departure had passed unnoticed.
"A fatiguing pursuit, this grubbing for mementoes of the past," saidPsmith. "And, above all, dashed bad for the knees of the trousers.
Mine are like some furrowed field. It's a great grief to a man ofrefinement, I can tell you, Comrade Jackson. Ah, this looks a likelyspot."They had passed through a gate into the field beyond. At the furtherend there was a brook, shaded by trees and running with a pleasantsound over pebbles.
"Thus far," said Psmith, hitching up the knees of his trousers, andsitting down, "and no farther. We will rest here awhile, and listen tothe music of the brook. In fact, unless you have anything important tosay, I rather think I'll go to sleep. In this busy life of ours thesenaps by the wayside are invaluable. Call me in about an hour." AndPsmith, heaving the comfortable sigh of the worker who by toil hasearned rest, lay down, with his head against a mossy tree-stump, andclosed his eyes.
Mike sat on for a few minutes, listening to the water and makingcenturies in his mind, and then, finding this a little dull, he gotup, jumped the brook, and began to explore the wood on the other side.
He had not gone many yards when a dog emerged suddenly from theundergrowth, and began to bark vigorously at him.
Mike liked dogs, and, on acquaintance, they always liked him. But whenyou meet a dog in some one else's wood, it is as well not to stop inorder that you may get to understand each other. Mike began to threadhis way back through the trees.
He was too late.
"Stop! What the dickens are you doing here?" shouted a voice behindhim.
In the same situation a few years before, Mike would have carried on,and trusted to speed to save him. But now there seemed a lack ofdignity in the action. He came back to where the man was standing.
"I'm sorry if I'm trespassing," he said. "I was just having a lookround.""The dickens you--Why, you're Jackson!"Mike looked at him. He was a short, broad young man with a fairmoustache. Mike knew that he had seen him before somewhere, but hecould not place him.
"I played against you, for the Free Foresters last summer. In passing,you seem to be a bit of a free forester yourself, dancing in among mynesting pheasants.""I'm frightfully sorry.""That's all right. Where do you spring from?""Of course--I remember you now. You're Prendergast. You madefifty-eight not out.""Thanks. I was afraid the only thing you would remember about me wasthat you took a century mostly off my bowling.""You ought to have had me second ball, only cover dropped it.""Don't rake up forgotten tragedies. How is it you're not at Wrykyn?
What are you doing down here?""I've left Wrykyn."Prendergast suddenly changed the conversation. When a fellow tells youthat he has left school unexpectedly, it is not always tactful toinquire the reason. He began to talk about himself.
"I hang out down here. I do a little farming and a good deal ofpottering about.""Get any cricket?" asked Mike, turning to the subject next his heart.
"Only village. Very keen, but no great shakes. By the way, how are youoff for cricket now? Have you ever got a spare afternoon?"Mike's heart leaped.
"Any Wednesday or Saturday. Look here, I'll tell you how it is."And he told how matters stood with him.
"So, you see," he concluded, "I'm supposed to be hunting for ruins andthings"--Mike's ideas on the subject of archaeology were vague--"but Icould always slip away. We all start out together, but I could nipback, get on to my bike--I've got it down here--and meet you anywhereyou liked. By Jove, I'm simply dying for a game. I can hardly keep myhands off a bat.""I'll give you all you want. What you'd better do is to ride straightto Lower Borlock--that's the name of the place--and I'll meet you onthe ground. Any one will tell you where Lower Borlock is. It's justoff the London road. There's a sign-post where you turn off. Can youcome next Saturday?""Rather. I suppose you can fix me up with a bat and pads? I don't wantto bring mine.""I'll lend you everything. I say, you know, we can't give you a Wrykynwicket. The Lower Borlock pitch isn't a shirt-front.""I'll play on a rockery, if you want me to," said Mike.
* * * * *"You're going to what?" asked Psmith, sleepily, on being awakened andtold the news.
"I'm going to play cricket, for a village near here. I say, don't tella soul, will you? I don't want it to get about, or I may get lugged into play for the school.""My lips are sealed. I think I'll come and watch you. Cricket Idislike, but watching cricket is one of the finest of Britain's manlysports. I'll borrow Jellicoe's bicycle."* * * * *That Saturday, Lower Borlock smote the men of Chidford hip and thigh.
Their victory was due to a hurricane innings of seventy-five by anew-comer to the team, M. Jackson.
Cricket is the great safety-valve. If you like the game, and are in aposition to play it at least twice a week, life can never be entirelygrey. As time went on, and his average for Lower Borlock reached thefifties and stayed there, Mike began, though he would not haveadmitted it, to enjoy himself. It was not Wrykyn, but it was a verydecent substitute.
The only really considerable element making for discomfort now was Mr.
Downing. By bad luck it was in his form that Mike had been placed onarrival; and Mr. Downing, never an easy form-master to get on with,proved more than usually difficult in his dealings with Mike.
They had taken a dislike to each other at their first meeting; and itgrew with further acquaintance. To Mike, Mr. Downing was all that amaster ought not to be, fussy, pompous, and openly influenced in hisofficial dealings with his form by his own private likes and dislikes.
To Mr. Downing, Mike was simply an unamiable loafer, who did nothingfor the school and apparently had none of the instincts which shouldbe implanted in the healthy boy. Mr. Downing was rather strong on thehealthy boy.
The two lived in a state of simmering hostility, punctuated atintervals by crises, which usually resulted in Lower Borlock having toplay some unskilled labourer in place of their star batsman, employeddoing "over-time."One of the most acute of these crises, and the most important, in thatit was the direct cause of Mike's appearance in Sedleigh cricket, hadto do with the third weekly meeting of the School Fire Brigade.
It may be remembered that this well-supported institution was underMr. Downing's special care. It was, indeed, his pet hobby and theapple of his eye.
Just as you had to join the Archaeological Society to secure theesteem of Mr. Outwood, so to become a member of the Fire Brigade was asafe passport to the regard of Mr. Downing. To show a keenness forcricket was good, but to join the Fire Brigade was best of all.
The Brigade was carefully organised. At its head was Mr. Downing,a sort of high priest; under him was a captain, and under the captaina vice-captain. These two officials were those sportive allies, Stoneand Robinson, of Outwood's house, who, having perceived at a very earlydate the gorgeous opportunities for ragging which the Brigade offeredto its members, had joined young and worked their way up.
Under them were the rank and file, about thirty in all, of whomperhaps seven were earnest workers, who looked on the Brigade in theright, or Downing, spirit. The rest were entirely frivolous.
The weekly meetings were always full of life and excitement.
At this point it is as well to introduce Sammy to the reader.
Sammy, short for Sampson, was a young bull-terrier belonging to Mr.
Downing. If it is possible for a man to have two apples of his eye,Sammy was the other. He was a large, light-hearted dog with a whitecoat, an engaging expression, the tongue of an ant-eater, and a mannerwhich was a happy blend of hurricane and circular saw. He had longlegs, a tenor voice, and was apparently made of india-rubber.
Sammy was a great favourite in the school, and a particular friend ofMike's, the Wrykynian being always a firm ally of every dog he metafter two minutes' acquaintance.
In passing, Jellicoe owned a clock-work rat, much in request duringFrench lessons.
We will now proceed to the painful details.
* * * * *The meetings of the Fire Brigade were held after school in Mr.
Downing's form-room. The proceedings always began in the same way, bythe reading of the minutes of the last meeting. After that theentertainment varied according to whether the members happened to befertile or not in ideas for the disturbing of the peace.
To-day they were in very fair form.
As soon as Mr. Downing had closed the minute-book, Wilson, of theSchool House, held up his hand.
"Well, Wilson?""Please, sir, couldn't we have a uniform for the Brigade?""A uniform?" Mr. Downing pondered"Red, with green stripes, sir,"Red, with a thin green stripe, was the Sedleigh colour.
"Shall I put it to the vote, sir?" asked Stone.
"One moment, Stone.""Those in favour of the motion move to the left, those against it tothe right."A scuffling of feet, a slamming of desk-lids and an upset blackboard,and the meeting had divided.
Mr. Downing rapped irritably on his desk.
"Sit down!" he said, "sit down! I won't have this noise anddisturbance. Stone, sit down--Wilson, get back to your place.""Please, sir, the motion is carried by twenty-five votes to six.""Please, sir, may I go and get measured this evening?""Please, sir----""Si-_lence_! The idea of a uniform is, of course, out of thequestion.""Oo-oo-oo-oo, sir-r-r!""Be _quiet!_ Entirely out of the question. We cannot plunge intoneedless expense. Stone, listen to me. I cannot have this noise anddisturbance! Another time when a point arises it must be settled by ashow of hands. Well, Wilson?""Please, sir, may we have helmets?""Very useful as a protection against falling timbers, sir," saidRobinson.
"I don't think my people would be pleased, sir, if they knew I wasgoing out to fires without a helmet," said Stone.
The whole strength of the company: "Please, sir, may we have helmets?""Those in favour--" began Stone.
Mr. Downing banged on his desk. "Silence! Silence!! Silence!!! Helmetsare, of course, perfectly preposterous.""Oo-oo-oo-oo, sir-r-r!""But, sir, the danger!""Please, sir, the falling timbers!"The Fire Brigade had been in action once and once only in the memoryof man, and that time it was a haystack which had burnt itself outjust as the rescuers had succeeded in fastening the hose to thehydrant.
"Silence!""Then, please, sir, couldn't we have an honour cap? It wouldn't beexpensive, and it would be just as good as a helmet for all thetimbers that are likely to fall on our heads."Mr. Downing smiled a wry smile.
"Our Wilson is facetious," he remarked frostily.
"Sir, no, sir! I wasn't facetious! Or couldn't we have footer-tops,like the first fifteen have? They----""Wilson, leave the room!""Sir, _please_, sir!""This moment, Wilson. And," as he reached the door, "do me one hundredlines."A pained "OO-oo-oo, sir-r-r," was cut off by the closing door.
Mr. Downing proceeded to improve the occasion. "I deplore this growingspirit of flippancy," he said. "I tell you I deplore it! It is notright! If this Fire Brigade is to be of solid use, there must be lessof this flippancy. We must have keenness. I want you boys above all tobe keen. I--What is that noise?"From the other side of the door proceeded a sound like water gurglingfrom a bottle, mingled with cries half-suppressed, as if somebody werebeing prevented from uttering them by a hand laid over his mouth. Thesufferer appeared to have a high voice.
There was a tap at the door and Mike walked in. He was not alone.
Those near enough to see, saw that he was accompanied by Jellicoe'sclock-work rat, which moved rapidly over the floor in the direction ofthe opposite wall.
"May I fetch a book from my desk, sir?" asked Mike.
"Very well--be quick, Jackson; we are busy."Being interrupted in one of his addresses to the Brigade irritated Mr.
Downing.
The muffled cries grew more distinct.
"What--is--that--noise?" shrilled Mr. Downing.
"Noise, sir?" asked Mike, puzzled.
"I think it's something outside the window, sir," said Stonehelpfully.
"A bird, I think, sir," said Robinson.
"Don't be absurd!" snapped Mr. Downing. "It's outside the door.
Wilson!""Yes, sir?" said a voice "off.""Are you making that whining noise?""Whining noise, sir? No, sir, I'm not making a whining noise.""What _sort_ of noise, sir?" inquired Mike, as many Wrykynianshad asked before him. It was a question invented by Wrykyn for use injust such a case as this.
"I do not propose," said Mr. Downing acidly, "to imitate the noise;you can all hear it perfectly plainly. It is a curious whining noise.""They are mowing the cricket field, sir," said the invisible Wilson.
"Perhaps that's it.""It may be one of the desks squeaking, sir," put in Stone. "They dosometimes.""Or somebody's boots, sir," added Robinson.
"Silence! Wilson?""Yes, sir?" bellowed the unseen one.
"Don't shout at me from the corridor like that. Come in.""Yes, sir!"As he spoke the muffled whining changed suddenly to a series of tenorshrieks, and the india-rubber form of Sammy bounded into the room likean excited kangaroo.
Willing hands had by this time deflected the clockwork rat from thewall to which it had been steering, and pointed it up the alley-waybetween the two rows of desks. Mr. Downing, rising from his place, wasjust in time to see Sammy with a last leap spring on his prey andbegin worrying it.
Chaos reigned.
"A rat!" shouted Robinson.
The twenty-three members of the Brigade who were not earnest instantlydealt with the situation, each in the manner that seemed proper tohim. Some leaped on to forms, others flung books, all shouted. It wasa stirring, bustling scene.
Sammy had by this time disposed of the clock-work rat, and was nowstanding, like Marius, among the ruins barking triumphantly.
The banging on Mr. Downing's desk resembled thunder. It rose above allthe other noises till in time they gave up the competition and diedaway.
Mr. Downing shot out orders, threats, and penalties with the rapidityof a Maxim gun.
"Stone, sit down! Donovan, if you do not sit down, you will beseverely punished. Henderson, one hundred lines for gross disorder!
Windham, the same! Go to your seat, Vincent. What are you doing,Broughton-Knight? I will not have this disgraceful noise and disorder!
The meeting is at an end; go quietly from the room, all of you.
Jackson and Wilson, remain. _Quietly_, I said, Durand! Don'tshuffle your feet in that abominable way."Crash!
"Wolferstan, I distinctly saw you upset that black-board with amovement of your hand--one hundred lines. Go quietly from the room,everybody."The meeting dispersed.
"Jackson and Wilson, come here. What's the meaning of this disgracefulconduct? Put that dog out of the room, Jackson."Mike removed the yelling Sammy and shut the door on him.
"Well, Wilson?""Please, sir, I was playing with a clock-work rat----""What business have you to be playing with clock-work rats?""Then I remembered," said Mike, "that I had left my Horace in my desk,so I came in----""And by a fluke, sir," said Wilson, as one who tells of strangethings, "the rat happened to be pointing in the same direction, so hecame in, too.""I met Sammy on the gravel outside and he followed me.""I tried to collar him, but when you told me to come in, sir, I had tolet him go, and he came in after the rat."It was plain to Mr. Downing that the burden of sin was shared equallyby both culprits. Wilson had supplied the rat, Mike the dog; but Mr.
Downing liked Wilson and disliked Mike. Wilson was in the FireBrigade, frivolous at times, it was true, but nevertheless a member.
Also he kept wicket for the school. Mike was a member of theArchaeological Society, and had refused to play cricket.
Mr. Downing allowed these facts to influence him in passing sentence.
"One hundred lines, Wilson," he said. "You may go."Wilson departed with the air of a man who has had a great deal of fun,and paid very little for it.
Mr. Downing turned to Mike. "You will stay in on Saturday afternoon,Jackson; it will interfere with your Archaeological studies, I fear,but it may teach you that we have no room at Sedleigh for boys whospend their time loafing about and making themselves a nuisance. Weare a keen school; this is no place for boys who do nothing but wastetheir time. That will do, Jackson."And Mr. Downing walked out of the room. In affairs of this kind amaster has a habit of getting the last word.
They say misfortunes never come singly. As Mike sat brooding over hiswrongs in his study, after the Sammy incident, Jellicoe came into theroom, and, without preamble, asked for the loan of a sovereign.
When one has been in the habit of confining one's lendings andborrowings to sixpences and shillings, a request for a sovereign comesas something of a blow.
"What on earth for?" asked Mike.
"I say, do you mind if I don't tell you? I don't want to tell anybody.
The fact is, I'm in a beastly hole.""Oh, sorry," said Mike. "As a matter of fact, I do happen to have aquid. You can freeze on to it, if you like. But it's about all I havegot, so don't be shy about paying it back."Jellicoe was profuse in his thanks, and disappeared in a cloud ofgratitude.
Mike felt that Fate was treating him badly. Being kept in on Saturdaymeant that he would be unable to turn out for Little Borlock againstClaythorpe, the return match. In the previous game he had scoredninety-eight, and there was a lob bowler in the Claythorpe ranks whomhe was particularly anxious to meet again. Having to yield a sovereignto Jellicoe--why on earth did the man want all that?--meant that,unless a carefully worded letter to his brother Bob at Oxford had thedesired effect, he would be practically penniless for weeks.
In a gloomy frame of mind he sat down to write to Bob, who was playingregularly for the 'Varsity this season, and only the previous week hadmade a century against Sussex, so might be expected to be in asufficiently softened mood to advance the needful. (Which, it may bestated at once, he did, by return of post.)Mike was struggling with the opening sentences of this letter--he wasnever a very ready writer--when Stone and Robinson burst into theroom.
Mike put down his pen, and got up. He was in warlike mood, andwelcomed the intrusion. If Stone and Robinson wanted battle, theyshould have it.
But the motives of the expedition were obviously friendly. Stonebeamed. Robinson was laughing.
"You're a sportsman," said Robinson.
"What did he give you?" asked Stone.
They sat down, Robinson on the table, Stone in Psmith' s deck-chair.
Mike's heart warmed to them. The little disturbance in the dormitorywas a thing of the past, done with, forgotten, contemporary withJulius Caesar. He felt that he, Stone and Robinson must learn to knowand appreciate one another.
There was, as a matter of fact, nothing much wrong with Stone andRobinson. They were just ordinary raggers of the type found at everypublic school, small and large. They were absolutely free from brain.
They had a certain amount of muscle, and a vast store of animalspirits. They looked on school life purely as a vehicle for ragging.
The Stones and Robinsons are the swashbucklers of the school world.
They go about, loud and boisterous, with a whole-hearted and cheerfulindifference to other people's feelings, treading on the toes of theirneighbour and shoving him off the pavement, and always with an eyewide open for any adventure. As to the kind of adventure, they are notparticular so long as it promises excitement. Sometimes they gothrough their whole school career without accident. More often theyrun up against a snag in the shape of some serious-minded and muscularperson who objects to having his toes trodden on and being shoved offthe pavement, and then they usually sober down, to the mutualadvantage of themselves and the rest of the community.
One's opinion of this type of youth varies according to one's point ofview. Small boys whom they had occasion to kick, either from pure highspirits or as a punishment for some slip from the narrow path whichthe ideal small boy should tread, regarded Stone and Robinson asbullies of the genuine "Eric" and "St. Winifred's" brand. Masters wererather afraid of them. Adair had a smouldering dislike for them. Theywere useful at cricket, but apt not to take Sedleigh as seriously ashe could have wished.
As for Mike, he now found them pleasant company, and began to get outthe tea-things.
"Those Fire Brigade meetings," said Stone, "are a rag. You can do whatyou like, and you never get more than a hundred lines.""Don't you!" said Mike. "I got Saturday afternoon.""What!""Is Wilson in too?""No. He got a hundred lines."Stone and Robinson were quite concerned.
"What a beastly swindle!""That's because you don't play cricket. Old Downing lets you do whatyou like if you join the Fire Brigade and play cricket.""'We are, above all, a keen school,'" quoted Stone. "Don't you everplay?""I have played a bit," said Mike.
"Well, why don't you have a shot? We aren't such flyers here. If youknow one end of a bat from the other, you could get into some sort ofa team. Were you at school anywhere before you came here?""I was at Wrykyn.""Why on earth did you leave?" asked Stone. "Were you sacked?""No. My pater took me away.""Wrykyn?" said Robinson. "Are you any relation of the Jacksonsthere--J. W. and the others?""Brother.""What!""Well, didn't you play at all there?""Yes," said Mike, "I did. I was in the team three years, and I shouldhave been captain this year, if I'd stopped on."There was a profound and gratifying sensation. Stone gaped, andRobinson nearly dropped his tea-cup.
Stone broke the silence.
"But I mean to say--look here! What I mean is, why aren't you playing?
Why don't you play now?""I do. I play for a village near here. Place called Little Borlock. Aman who played against Wrykyn for the Free Foresters captains them. Heasked me if I'd like some games for them.""But why not for the school?""Why should I? It's much better fun for the village. You don't getordered about by Adair, for a start.""Adair sticks on side," said Stone.
"Enough for six," agreed Robinson.
"By Jove," said Stone, "I've got an idea. My word, what a rag!""What's wrong now?" inquired Mike politely.
"Why, look here. To-morrow's Mid-term Service day. It's nowhere nearthe middle of the term, but they always have it in the fourth week.
There's chapel at half-past nine till half-past ten. Then the rest ofthe day's a whole holiday. There are always house matches. We'replaying Downing's. Why don't you play and let's smash them?""By Jove, yes," said Robinson. "Why don't you? They're always stickingon side because they've won the house cup three years running. I say,do you bat or bowl?""Bat. Why?"Robinson rocked on the table.
"Why, old Downing fancies himself as a bowler. You _must_ play,and knock the cover off him.""Masters don't play in house matches, surely?""This isn't a real house match. Only a friendly. Downing always turnsout on Mid-term Service day. I say, do play.""Think of the rag.""But the team's full," said Mike.
"The list isn't up yet. We'll nip across to Barnes' study, and makehim alter it."They dashed out of the room. From down the passage Mike heard yells of"_Barnes_!" the closing of a door, and a murmur of excitedconversation. Then footsteps returning down the passage.
Barnes appeared, on his face the look of one who has seen visions.
"I say," he said, "is it true? Or is Stone rotting? About Wrykyn, Imean.""Yes, I was in the team."Barnes was an enthusiastic cricketer. He studied his _Wisden_,and he had an immense respect for Wrykyn cricket.
"Are you the M. Jackson, then, who had an average of fifty-one pointnought three last year?"[Illustration: "ARE YOU THE M. JACKSON, THEN, WHO HAD AN AVERAGE OFFIFTY-ONE POINT NOUGHT THREE LAST YEAR?"]
"Yes."Barnes's manner became like that of a curate talking to a bishop.
"I say," he said, "then--er--will you play against Downing's to-morrow?""Rather," said Mike. "Thanks awfully. Have some tea?"
It is the curious instinct which prompts most people to rub a thing inthat makes the lot of the average convert an unhappy one. Only thevery self-controlled can refrain from improving the occasion andscoring off the convert. Most leap at the opportunity.
It was so in Mike's case. Mike was not a genuine convert, but to Mr.
Downing he had the outward aspect of one. When you have beenimpressing upon a non-cricketing boy for nearly a month that(_a_) the school is above all a keen school, (_b_) that allmembers of it should play cricket, and (_c_) that by not playingcricket he is ruining his chances in this world and imperilling themin the next; and when, quite unexpectedly, you come upon this boydressed in cricket flannels, wearing cricket boots and carrying acricket bag, it seems only natural to assume that you have convertedhim, that the seeds of your eloquence have fallen on fruitful soil andsprouted.
Mr. Downing assumed it.
He was walking to the field with Adair and another member of his teamwhen he came upon Mike.
"What!" he cried. "Our Jackson clad in suit of mail and armed for thefray!"This was Mr. Downing's No. 2 manner--the playful.
"This is indeed Saul among the prophets. Why this sudden enthusiasmfor a game which I understood that you despised? Are our opponents soreduced?"Psmith, who was with Mike, took charge of the affair with a languidgrace which had maddened hundreds in its time, and which never failedto ruffle Mr. Downing.
"We are, above all, sir," he said, "a keen house. Drones are notwelcomed by us. We are essentially versatile. Jackson, thearchaeologist of yesterday, becomes the cricketer of to-day. It is theright spirit, sir," said Psmith earnestly. "I like to see it.""Indeed, Smith? You are not playing yourself, I notice. Yourenthusiasm has bounds.""In our house, sir, competition is fierce, and the Selection Committeeunfortunately passed me over."* * * * *There were a number of pitches dotted about over the field, for therewas always a touch of the London Park about it on Mid-term Serviceday. Adair, as captain of cricket, had naturally selected the best forhis own match. It was a good wicket, Mike saw. As a matter of fact thewickets at Sedleigh were nearly always good. Adair had infected theground-man with some of his own keenness, with the result that thatonce-leisurely official now found himself sometimes, with a kind ofmild surprise, working really hard. At the beginning of the previousseason Sedleigh had played a scratch team from a neighbouring town on awicket which, except for the creases, was absolutely undistinguishablefrom the surrounding turf, and behind the pavilion after the matchAdair had spoken certain home truths to the ground-man. The latter'sreformation had dated from that moment.
* * * * *Barnes, timidly jubilant, came up to Mike with the news that he hadwon the toss, and the request that Mike would go in first with him.
In stories of the "Not Really a Duffer" type, where the nervous newboy, who has been found crying in the boot-room over the photograph ofhis sister, contrives to get an innings in a game, nobody suspectsthat he is really a prodigy till he hits the Bully's first ball out ofthe ground for six.
With Mike it was different. There was no pitying smile on Adair's faceas he started his run preparatory to sending down the first ball.
Mike, on the cricket field, could not have looked anything but acricketer if he had turned out in a tweed suit and hobnail boots.
Cricketer was written all over him--in his walk, in the way he tookguard, in his stand at the wickets. Adair started to bowl with thefeeling that this was somebody who had more than a little knowledge ofhow to deal with good bowling and punish bad.
Mike started cautiously. He was more than usually anxious to make runsto-day, and he meant to take no risks till he could afford to do so.
He had seen Adair bowl at the nets, and he knew that he was good.
The first over was a maiden, six dangerous balls beautifully played.
The fieldsmen changed over.
The general interest had now settled on the match between Outwood'sand Downing's. The fact in Mike's case had gone round the field, and,as several of the other games had not yet begun, quite a large crowdhad collected near the pavilion to watch. Mike's masterly treatment ofthe opening over had impressed the spectators, and there was a populardesire to see how he would deal with Mr. Downing's slows. It wasgenerally anticipated that he would do something special with them.
Off the first ball of the master's over a leg-bye was run.
Mike took guard.
Mr. Downing was a bowler with a style of his own. He took two shortsteps, two long steps, gave a jump, took three more short steps, andended with a combination of step and jump, during which the ballemerged from behind his back and started on its slow career tothe wicket. The whole business had some of the dignity of theold-fashioned minuet, subtly blended with the careless vigour ofa cake-walk. The ball, when delivered, was billed to break fromleg, but the programme was subject to alterations.
If the spectators had expected Mike to begin any firework effects withthe first ball, they were disappointed. He played the over throughwith a grace worthy of his brother Joe. The last ball he turned to legfor a single.
His treatment of Adair's next over was freer. He had got a sight ofthe ball now. Half-way through the over a beautiful square cut forceda passage through the crowd by the pavilion, and dashed up against therails. He drove the sixth ball past cover for three.
The crowd was now reluctantly dispersing to its own games, but itstopped as Mr. Downing started his minuet-cake-walk, in the hope thatit might see something more sensational.
This time the hope was fulfilled.
The ball was well up, slow, and off the wicket on the on-side. Perhapsif it had been allowed to pitch, it might have broken in and becomequite dangerous. Mike went out at it, and hit it a couple of feet fromthe ground. The ball dropped with a thud and a spurting of dust in theroad that ran along one side of the cricket field.
It was returned on the instalment system by helpers from other games,and the bowler began his manoeuvres again. A half-volley this time.
Mike slammed it back, and mid-on, whose heart was obviously not in thething, failed to stop it.
"Get to them, Jenkins," said Mr. Downing irritably, as the ball cameback from the boundary. "Get to them.""Sir, please, sir----""Don't talk in the field, Jenkins."Having had a full-pitch hit for six and a half-volley for four, therewas a strong probability that Mr. Downing would pitch his next ballshort.
The expected happened. The third ball was a slow long-hop, and hit theroad at about the same spot where the first had landed. A howl ofuntuneful applause rose from the watchers in the pavilion, and Mike,with the feeling that this sort of bowling was too good to be true,waited in position for number four.
There are moments when a sort of panic seizes a bowler. This happenednow with Mr. Downing. He suddenly abandoned science and ran amok. Hisrun lost its stateliness and increased its vigour. He charged up tothe wicket as a wounded buffalo sometimes charges a gun. His wholeidea now was to bowl fast.
When a slow bowler starts to bowl fast, it is usually as well to bebatting, if you can manage it.
By the time the over was finished, Mike's score had been increased bysixteen, and the total of his side, in addition, by three wides.
And a shrill small voice, from the neighbourhood of the pavilion,uttered with painful distinctness the words, "Take him off!"That was how the most sensational day's cricket began that Sedleighhad known.
A description of the details of the morning's play would bemonotonous. It is enough to say that they ran on much the same linesas the third and fourth overs of the match. Mr. Downing bowled onemore over, off which Mike helped himself to sixteen runs, and thenretired moodily to cover-point, where, in Adair's fifth over, hemissed Barnes--the first occasion since the game began on which thatmild batsman had attempted to score more than a single. Scared by thisescape, Outwood's captain shrank back into his shell, sat on thesplice like a limpet, and, offering no more chances, was not out atlunch time with a score of eleven.
Mike had then made a hundred and three.
* * * * *As Mike was taking off his pads in the pavilion, Adair came up.
"Why did you say you didn't play cricket?" he asked abruptly.
[Illustration: "WHY DID YOU SAY YOU DIDN'T PLAY CRICKET?" HE ASKED]
When one has been bowling the whole morning, and bowling well, withoutthe slightest success, one is inclined to be abrupt.
Mike finished unfastening an obstinate strap. Then he looked up.
"I didn't say anything of the kind. I said I wasn't going to playhere. There's a difference. As a matter of fact, I was in the Wrykynteam before I came here. Three years."Adair was silent for a moment.
"Will you play for us against the Old Sedleighans to-morrow?" he saidat length.
Mike tossed his pads into his bag and got up.
"No, thanks."There was a silence.
"Above it, I suppose?""Not a bit. Not up to it. I shall want a lot of coaching at that endnet of yours before I'm fit to play for Sedleigh."There was another pause.
"Then you won't play?" asked Adair.
"I'm not keeping you, am I?" said Mike, politely.
It was remarkable what a number of members of Outwood's house appearedto cherish a personal grudge against Mr. Downing. It had been thatmaster's somewhat injudicious practice for many years to treat hisown house as a sort of Chosen People. Of all masters, the mostunpopular is he who by the silent tribunal of a school is convictedof favouritism. And the dislike deepens if it is a house which hefavours and not merely individuals. On occasions when boys in hisown house and boys from other houses were accomplices and partnersin wrong-doing, Mr. Downing distributed his thunderbolts unequally,and the school noticed it. The result was that not only he himself,but also--which was rather unfair--his house, too, had acquired agood deal of unpopularity.
The general consensus of opinion in Outwood's during the luncheoninterval was that, having got Downing's up a tree, they would be foolsnot to make the most of the situation.
Barnes's remark that he supposed, unless anything happened and wicketsbegan to fall a bit faster, they had better think of declaringsomewhere about half-past three or four, was met with a storm ofopposition.
"Declare!" said Robinson. "Great Scott, what on earth are you talkingabout?""Declare!" Stone's voice was almost a wail of indignation. "I neversaw such a chump.""They'll be rather sick if we don't, won't they?" suggested Barnes.
"Sick! I should think they would," said Stone. "That's just the gayidea. Can't you see that by a miracle we've got a chance of getting ajolly good bit of our own back against those Downing's ticks? Whatwe've got to do is to jolly well keep them in the field all day if wecan, and be jolly glad it's so beastly hot. If they lose about a dozenpounds each through sweating about in the sun after Jackson's drives,perhaps they'll stick on less side about things in general in future.
Besides, I want an innings against that bilge of old Downing's, if Ican get it.""So do I," said Robinson.
"If you declare, I swear I won't field. Nor will Robinson.""Rather not.""Well, I won't then," said Barnes unhappily. "Only you know they'rerather sick already.""Don't you worry about that," said Stone with a wide grin. "They'll bea lot sicker before we've finished."And so it came about that that particular Mid-term Service-day matchmade history. Big scores had often been put up on Mid-term Serviceday. Games had frequently been one-sided. But it had never happenedbefore in the annals of the school that one side, going in first earlyin the morning, had neither completed its innings nor declared itclosed when stumps were drawn at 6.30. In no previous Sedleigh match,after a full day's play, had the pathetic words "Did not bat" beenwritten against the whole of one of the contending teams.
These are the things which mark epochs.
Play was resumed at 2.15. For a quarter of an hour Mike wascomparatively quiet. Adair, fortified by food and rest, was bowlingreally well, and his first half-dozen overs had to be watchedcarefully. But the wicket was too good to give him a chance, and Mike,playing himself in again, proceeded to get to business once more.
Bowlers came and went. Adair pounded away at one end with briefintervals between the attacks. Mr. Downing took a couple more overs,in one of which a horse, passing in the road, nearly had its usefullife cut suddenly short. Change-bowlers of various actions and paces,each weirder and more futile than the last, tried their luck. Butstill the first-wicket stand continued.
The bowling of a house team is all head and no body. The first pairprobably have some idea of length and break. The first-change pair arepoor. And the rest, the small change, are simply the sort of thingsone sees in dreams after a heavy supper, or when one is out withoutone's gun.
Time, mercifully, generally breaks up a big stand at cricket beforethe field has suffered too much, and that is what happened now.
At four o'clock, when the score stood at two hundred and twentyfor no wicket, Barnes, greatly daring, smote lustily at a ratherwide half-volley and was caught at short-slip for thirty-three. Heretired blushfully to the pavilion, amidst applause, and Stone cameout.
As Mike had then made a hundred and eighty-seven, it was assumed bythe field, that directly he had topped his second century, the closurewould be applied and their ordeal finished. There was almost a sigh ofrelief when frantic cheering from the crowd told that the feat hadbeen accomplished. The fieldsmen clapped in quite an indulgent sort ofway, as who should say, "Capital, capital. And now let's start_our_ innings." Some even began to edge towards the pavilion.
But the next ball was bowled, and the next over, and the next afterthat, and still Barnes made no sign. (The conscience-stricken captainof Outwood's was, as a matter of fact, being practically held down byRobinson and other ruffians by force.)A grey dismay settled on the field.
The bowling had now become almost unbelievably bad. Lobs were beingtried, and Stone, nearly weeping with pure joy, was playing an inningsof the How-to-brighten-cricket type. He had an unorthodox style, butan excellent eye, and the road at this period of the game becameabsolutely unsafe for pedestrians and traffic.
Mike's pace had become slower, as was only natural, but his score,too, was mounting steadily.
"This is foolery," snapped Mr. Downing, as the three hundred and fiftywent up on the board. "Barnes!" he called.
There was no reply. A committee of three was at that moment engaged insitting on Barnes's head in the first eleven changing-room, in orderto correct a more than usually feverish attack of conscience.
"Barnes!""Please, sir," said Stone, some species of telepathy telling him whatwas detaining his captain. "I think Barnes must have left the field.
He has probably gone over to the house to fetch something.""This is absurd. You must declare your innings closed. The game hasbecome a farce.""Declare! Sir, we can't unless Barnes does. He might be awfullyannoyed if we did anything like that without consulting him.""Absurd.""He's very touchy, sir.""It is perfect foolery.""I think Jenkins is just going to bowl, sir."Mr. Downing walked moodily to his place.
* * * * *In a neat wooden frame in the senior day-room at Outwood's, just abovethe mantelpiece, there was on view, a week later, a slip of paper. Thewriting on it was as follows:
_________________OUTWOOD'S__v_._DOWNING'S
_________________Outwood's._First_innings._
_____J._P._Barnes,__c_._Hammond,__b_._Hassall...__33
_____M._Jackson,_not_out........................_277
_____W._J._Stone,_not_out......................._124
___________Extras...............................__37
_________________________________________________-----
____________________Total_(for_one_wicket)......_471
____________________Downing's_did_not_bat.