Wyatt's bowling to know that it was merely ordinary "slow tosh," and
the professional did not look as difficult as Saunders. The first
half-dozen balls he played carefully. He was on trial, and he meant to
take no risks. Then the professional over-pitched one slightly on the
off. Mike jumped out, and got the full face of the bat on to it. The
ball hit one of the ropes of the net, and nearly broke it.
"How's that?" said Wyatt, with the smile of an impresario on the first
night of a successful piece.
"Not bad," admitted Burgess.
A few moments later he was still more complimentary. He got up and
took a ball himself.
Mike braced himself up as Burgess began his run. This time he was more
than a trifle nervous. The bowling he had had so far had been tame.
This would be the real ordeal.
As the ball left Burgess's hand he began instinctively to shape for a
forward stroke. Then suddenly he realised that the thing was going to
be a yorker, and banged his bat down in the block just as the ball
arrived. An unpleasant sensation as of having been struck by a
thunderbolt was succeeded by a feeling of relief that he had kept the
ball out of his wicket. There are easier things in the world than
stopping a fast yorker.
"Well played," said Burgess.
Mike felt like a successful general receiving the thanks of the
nation.
The fact that Burgess's next ball knocked middle and off stumps out of
the ground saddened him somewhat; but this was the last tragedy that
occurred. He could not do much with the bowling beyond stopping it and
feeling repetitions of the thunderbolt experience, but he kept up his
end; and a short conversation which he had with Burgess at the end of
his innings was full of encouragement to one skilled in reading
between the lines.
"Thanks awfully," said Mike, referring to the square manner in which
the captain had behaved in letting him bat.
"What school were you at before you came here?" asked Burgess.
"A private school in Hampshire," said Mike. "King-Hall's. At a place
called Emsworth."
"Get much cricket there?"
"Yes, a good lot. One of the masters, a chap called Westbrook, was an
awfully good slow bowler."
Burgess nodded.
"You don't run away, which is something," he said.
Mike turned purple with pleasure at this stately compliment. Then,
having waited for further remarks, but gathering from the captain's
silence that the audience was at an end, he proceeded to unbuckle his
pads. Wyatt overtook him on his way to the house.
"Well played," he said. "I'd no idea you were such hot stuff. You're a
regular pro."
"I say," said Mike gratefully, "it was most awfully decent of you
getting Burgess to let me go in. It was simply ripping of you."
"Oh, that's all right. If you don't get pushed a bit here you stay for
ages in the hundredth game with the cripples and the kids. Now you've
shown them what you can do you ought to get into the Under Sixteen
team straight away. Probably into the third, too."
"By Jove, that would be all right."
"I asked Burgess afterwards what he thought of your batting, and he
said, 'Not bad.' But he says that about everything. It's his highest
form of praise. He says it when he wants to let himself go and simply
butter up a thing. If you took him to see N. A. Knox bowl, he'd say he
wasn't bad. What he meant was that he was jolly struck with your
batting, and is going to play you for the Under Sixteen."
"I hope so," said Mike.
The prophecy was fulfilled. On the following Wednesday there was a
match between the Under Sixteen and a scratch side. Mike's name was
among the Under Sixteen. And on the Saturday he was playing for the
third eleven in a trial game.
"This place is ripping," he said to himself, as he saw his name on the
list. "Thought I should like it."
And that night he wrote a letter to his father, notifying him of the
fact.
CHAPTER V
REVELRY BY NIGHT
A succession of events combined to upset Mike during his first
fortnight at school. He was far more successful than he had any right
to be at his age. There is nothing more heady than success, and if it
comes before we are prepared for it, it is apt to throw us off our
balance. As a rule, at school, years of wholesome obscurity make us
ready for any small triumphs we may achieve at the end of our time
there. Mike had skipped these years. He was older than the average new
boy, and his batting was undeniable. He knew quite well that he was
regarded as a find by the cricket authorities; and the knowledge was
not particularly good for him. It did not make him conceited, for his
was not a nature at all addicted to conceit. The effect it had on him
was to make him excessively pleased with life. And when Mike was
pleased with life he always found a difficulty in obeying Authority
and its rules. His state of mind was not improved by an interview with
Bob.
Some evil genius put it into Bob's mind that it was his duty to be, if
only for one performance, the Heavy Elder Brother to Mike; to give him
good advice. It is never the smallest use for an elder brother to
attempt to do anything for the good of a younger brother at school,
for the latter rebels automatically against such interference in his
concerns; but Bob did not know this. He only knew that he had received
a letter from home, in which his mother had assumed without evidence
that he was leading Mike by the hand round the pitfalls of life at
Wrykyn; and his conscience smote him. Beyond asking him occasionally,
when they met, how he was getting on (a question to which Mike
invariably replied, "Oh, all right"), he was not aware of having done
anything brotherly towards the youngster. So he asked Mike to tea in
his study one afternoon before going to the nets.
Mike arrived, sidling into the study in the half-sheepish, half-defiant
manner peculiar to small brothers in the presence of their elders, and
stared in silence at the photographs on the walls. Bob was changing into
his cricket things. The atmosphere was one of constraint and awkwardness.
The arrival of tea was the cue for conversation.
"Well, how are you getting on?" asked Bob.
"Oh, all right," said Mike.
Silence.
"Sugar?" asked Bob.
"Thanks," said Mike.
"How many lumps?"
"Two, please."
"Cake?"
"Thanks."
Silence.
Bob pulled himself together.
"Like Wain's?"
"Ripping."
"I asked Firby-Smith to keep an eye on you," said Bob.
"What!" said Mike.
The mere idea of a worm like the Gazeka being told to keep an eye on
_him_ was degrading.
"He said he'd look after you," added Bob, making things worse.
Look after him! Him!! M. Jackson, of the third eleven!!!
Mike helped himself to another chunk of cake, and spoke crushingly.
"He needn't trouble," he said. "I can look after myself all right,
thanks."
Bob saw an opening for the entry of the Heavy Elder Brother.
"Look here, Mike," he said, "I'm only saying it for your good - - "
I should like to state here that it was not Bob's habit to go about
the world telling people things solely for their good. He was only
doing it now to ease his conscience.
"Yes?" said Mike coldly.
"It's only this. You know, I should keep an eye on myself if I were
you. There's nothing that gets a chap so barred here as side."
"What do you mean?" said Mike, outraged.
"Oh, I'm not saying anything against you so far," said Bob. "You've
been all right up to now. What I mean to say is, you've got on so well
at cricket, in the third and so on, there's just a chance you might
start to side about a bit soon, if you don't watch yourself. I'm not
saying a word against you so far, of course. Only you see what I
mean."
Mike's feelings were too deep for words. In sombre silence he reached
out for the jam; while Bob, satisfied that he had delivered his
message in a pleasant and tactful manner, filled his cup, and cast
about him for further words of wisdom.
"Seen you about with Wyatt a good deal," he said at length.
"Yes," said Mike.
"Like him?"
"Yes," said Mike cautiously.
"You know," said Bob, "I shouldn't - I mean, I should take care what
you're doing with Wyatt."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, he's an awfully good chap, of course, but still - - "
"Still what?"
"Well, I mean, he's the sort of chap who'll probably get into some
thundering row before he leaves. He doesn't care a hang what he does.
He's that sort of chap. He's never been dropped on yet, but if you go
on breaking rules you're bound to be sooner or later. Thing is, it
doesn't matter much for him, because he's leaving at the end of the
term. But don't let him drag you into anything. Not that he would try
to. But you might think it was the blood thing to do to imitate him,
and the first thing you knew you'd be dropped on by Wain or somebody.
See what I mean?"
Bob was well-intentioned, but tact did not enter greatly into his
composition.
"What rot!" said Mike.
"All right. But don't you go doing it. I'm going over to the nets. I
see Burgess has shoved you down for them. You'd better be going and
changing. Stick on here a bit, though, if you want any more tea. I've
got to be off myself."
Mike changed for net-practice in a ferment of spiritual injury. It was
maddening to be treated as an infant who had to be looked after. He
felt very sore against Bob.
A good innings at the third eleven net, followed by some strenuous
fielding in the deep, soothed his ruffled feelings to a large extent;
and all might have been well but for the intervention of Firby-Smith.
That youth, all spectacles and front teeth, met Mike at the door of
Wain's.
"Ah, I wanted to see you, young man," he said. (Mike disliked being
called "young man.") "Come up to my study."
Mike followed him in silence to his study, and preserved his silence
till Firby-Smith, having deposited his cricket-bag in a corner of the
room and examined himself carefully in a looking-glass that hung over
the mantelpiece, spoke again.
"I've been hearing all about you, young man." Mike shuffled.
"You're a frightful character from all accounts." Mike could not think
of anything to say that was not rude, so said nothing.
"Your brother has asked me to keep an eye on you."
Mike's soul began to tie itself into knots again. He was just at the
age when one is most sensitive to patronage and most resentful of it.
"I promised I would," said the Gazeka, turning round and examining
himself in the mirror again. "You'll get on all right if you behave
yourself. Don't make a frightful row in the house. Don't cheek your
elders and betters. Wash. That's all. Cut along."
Mike had a vague idea of sacrificing his career to the momentary
pleasure of flinging a chair at the head of the house. Overcoming this
feeling, he walked out of the room, and up to his dormitory to change.
* * * * *
In the dormitory that night the feeling of revolt, of wanting to
do something actively illegal, increased. Like Eric, he burned, not
with shame and remorse, but with rage and all that sort of thing.
He dropped off to sleep full of half-formed plans for asserting
himself. He was awakened from a dream in which he was batting against
Firby-Smith's bowling, and hitting it into space every time, by a
slight sound. He opened his eyes, and saw a dark figure silhouetted
against the light of the window. He sat up in bed.
"Hullo," he said. "Is that you, Wyatt?"
"Are you awake?" said Wyatt. "Sorry if I've spoiled your beauty
sleep."
"Are you going out?"
"I am," said Wyatt. "The cats are particularly strong on the wing just
now. Mustn't miss a chance like this. Specially as there's a good
moon, too. I shall be deadly."
"I say, can't I come too?"
A moonlight prowl, with or without an air-pistol, would just have
suited Mike's mood.
"No, you can't," said Wyatt. "When I'm caught, as I'm morally certain
to be some day, or night rather, they're bound to ask if you've ever
been out as well as me. Then you'll be able to put your hand on your
little heart and do a big George Washington act. You'll find that
useful when the time comes."
"Do you think you will be caught?"
"Shouldn't be surprised. Anyhow, you stay where you are. Go to sleep
and dream that you're playing for the school against Ripton. So long."
And Wyatt, laying the bar he had extracted on the window-sill,
wriggled out. Mike saw him disappearing along the wall.
* * * * *
It was all very well for Wyatt to tell him to go to sleep, but it was
not so easy to do it. The room was almost light; and Mike always found
it difficult to sleep unless it was dark. He turned over on his side
and shut his eyes, but he had never felt wider awake. Twice he heard
the quarters chime from the school clock; and the second time he gave
up the struggle. He got out of bed and went to the window. It was a
lovely night, just the sort of night on which, if he had been at home,
he would have been out after moths with a lantern.
A sharp yowl from an unseen cat told of Wyatt's presence somewhere in
the big garden. He would have given much to be with him, but he
realised that he was on parole. He had promised not to leave the
house, and there was an end of it.
He turned away from the window and sat down on his bed. Then a
beautiful, consoling thought came to him. He had given his word that
he would not go into the garden, but nothing had been said about
exploring inside the house. It was quite late now. Everybody would be
in bed. It would be quite safe. And there must be all sorts of things
to interest the visitor in Wain's part of the house. Food, perhaps.
Mike felt that he could just do with a biscuit. And there were bound
to be biscuits on the sideboard in Wain's dining-room.
He crept quietly out of the dormitory.
He had been long enough in the house to know the way, in spite of the
fact that all was darkness. Down the stairs, along the passage to the
left, and up a few more stairs at the end The beauty of the position
was that the dining-room had two doors, one leading into Wain's part
of the house, the other into the boys' section. Any interruption that
there might be would come from the further door.
To make himself more secure he locked that door; then, turning up the
incandescent light, he proceeded to look about him.
Mr. Wain's dining-room repaid inspection. There were the remains of
supper on the table. Mike cut himself some cheese and took some
biscuits from the box, feeling that he was doing himself well. This
was Life. There was a little soda-water in the syphon. He finished it.
As it swished into the glass, it made a noise that seemed to him like
three hundred Niagaras; but nobody else in the house appeared to have
noticed it.
He took some more biscuits, and an apple.
After which, feeling a new man, he examined the room.
And this was where the trouble began.
On a table in one corner stood a small gramophone. And gramophones
happened to be Mike's particular craze.
All thought of risk left him. The soda-water may have got into his
head, or he may have been in a particularly reckless mood, as indeed
he was. The fact remains that _he_ inserted the first record that
came to hand, wound the machine up, and set it going.
The next moment, very loud and nasal, a voice from the machine
announced that Mr. Godfrey Field would sing "The Quaint Old Bird."
And, after a few preliminary chords, Mr. Field actually did so.
_"Auntie went to Aldershot in a Paris pom-pom hat."_
Mike stood and drained it in.
_"... Good gracious_ (sang Mr. Field), _what was that?"_
It was a rattling at the handle of the door. A rattling that turned
almost immediately into a spirited banging. A voice accompanied the
banging. "Who is there?" inquired the voice. Mike recognised it as Mr.
Wain's. He was not alarmed. The man who holds the ace of trumps has no
need to be alarmed. His position was impregnable. The enemy was held
in check by the locked door, while the other door offered an admirable
and instantaneous way of escape.
Mike crept across the room on tip-toe and opened the window. It had
occurred to him, just in time, that if Mr. Wain, on entering the room,
found that the occupant had retired by way of the boys' part of the
house, he might possibly obtain a clue to his identity. If, on the
other hand, he opened the window, suspicion would be diverted. Mike
had not read his "Raffles" for nothing.
The handle-rattling was resumed. This was good. So long as the frontal
attack was kept up, there was no chance of his being taken in the
rear - his only danger.
He stopped the gramophone, which had been pegging away patiently at
"The Quaint Old Bird" all the time, and reflected. It seemed a pity to
evacuate the position and ring down the curtain on what was, to date,
the most exciting episode of his life; but he must not overdo the
thing, and get caught. At any moment the noise might bring
reinforcements to the besieging force, though it was not likely, for
the dining-room was a long way from the dormitories; and it might
flash upon their minds that there were two entrances to the room. Or
the same bright thought might come to Wain himself.
"Now what," pondered Mike, "would A. J. Raffles have done in a case
like this? Suppose he'd been after somebody's jewels, and found that
they were after him, and he'd locked one door, and could get away by
the other."
The answer was simple.
"He'd clear out," thought Mike.
Two minutes later he was in bed.
He lay there, tingling all over with the consciousness of having
played a masterly game, when suddenly a gruesome idea came to him, and
he sat up, breathless. Suppose Wain took it into his head to make a
tour of the dormitories, to see that all was well! Wyatt was still
in the garden somewhere, blissfully unconscious of what was going on
indoors. He would be caught for a certainty!
CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH A TIGHT CORNER IS EVADED
For a moment the situation paralysed Mike. Then he began to be equal
to it. In times of excitement one thinks rapidly and clearly. The main
point, the kernel of the whole thing, was that he must get into the
garden somehow, and warn Wyatt. And at the same time, he must keep Mr.
Wain from coming to the dormitory. He jumped out of bed, and dashed
down the dark stairs.
He had taken care to close the dining-room door after him. It was open
now, and he could hear somebody moving inside the room. Evidently his
retreat had been made just in time.
He knocked at the door, and went in.
Mr. Wain was standing at the window, looking out. He spun round at the
knock, and stared in astonishment at Mike's pyjama-clad figure. Mike,
in spite of his anxiety, could barely check a laugh. Mr. Wain was a
tall, thin man, with a serious face partially obscured by a grizzled
beard. He wore spectacles, through which he peered owlishly at Mike.
His body was wrapped in a brown dressing-gown. His hair was ruffled.
He looked like some weird bird.
"Please, sir, I thought I heard a noise," said Mike.
Mr. Wain continued to stare.
"What are you doing here?" said he at last.
"Thought I heard a noise, please, sir."
"A noise?"
"Please, sir, a row."
"You thought you heard - - !"
The thing seemed to be worrying Mr. Wain.
"So I came down, sir," said Mike.
The house-master's giant brain still appeared to be somewhat clouded.
He looked about him, and, catching sight of the gramophone, drew
inspiration from it.
"Did you turn on the gramophone?" he asked.
"_Me_, sir!" said Mike, with the air of a bishop accused of
contributing to the _Police News_.
"Of course not, of course not," said Mr. Wain hurriedly. "Of course
not. I don't know why I asked. All this is very unsettling. What are
you doing here?"
"Thought I heard a noise, please, sir."
"A noise?"
"A row, sir."
If it was Mr. Wain's wish that he should spend the night playing Massa
Tambo to his Massa Bones, it was not for him to baulk the house-master's
innocent pleasure. He was prepared to continue the snappy dialogue till
breakfast time.
"I think there must have been a burglar in here, Jackson."
"Looks like it, sir."
"I found the window open."
"He's probably in the garden, sir."
Mr. Wain looked out into the garden with an annoyed expression, as if
its behaviour in letting burglars be in it struck him as unworthy of a
respectable garden.
"He might be still in the house," said Mr. Wain, ruminatively.
"Not likely, sir."
"You think not?"
"Wouldn't be such a fool, sir. I mean, such an ass, sir."
"Perhaps you are right, Jackson."
"I shouldn't wonder if he was hiding in the shrubbery, sir."
Mr. Wain looked at the shrubbery, as who should say, _"Et tu,
Brute!"_
"By Jove! I think I see him," cried Mike. He ran to the window, and
vaulted through it on to the lawn. An inarticulate protest from Mr.
Wain, rendered speechless by this move just as he had been beginning
to recover his faculties, and he was running across the lawn into the
shrubbery. He felt that all was well. There might be a bit of a row on
his return, but he could always plead overwhelming excitement.
Wyatt was round at the back somewhere, and the problem was how to get
back without being seen from the dining-room window. Fortunately a
belt of evergreens ran along the path right up to the house. Mike
worked his way cautiously through these till he was out of sight, then
tore for the regions at the back.
The moon had gone behind the clouds, and it was not easy to find a way
through the bushes. Twice branches sprang out from nowhere, and hit
Mike smartly over the shins, eliciting sharp howls of pain.
On the second of these occasions a low voice spoke from somewhere on
his right.
"Who on earth's that?" it said.
Mike stopped.
"Is that you, Wyatt? I say - - "
"Jackson!"
The moon came out again, and Mike saw Wyatt clearly. His knees were
covered with mould. He had evidently been crouching in the bushes on
all fours.
"You young ass," said Wyatt. "You promised me that you wouldn't get
out."
"Yes, I know, but - - "
"I heard you crashing through the shrubbery like a hundred elephants.
If you _must_ get out at night and chance being sacked, you might
at least have the sense to walk quietly."
"Yes, but you don't understand."
And Mike rapidly explained the situation.
"But how the dickens did he hear you, if you were in the dining-room?"
asked Wyatt. "It's miles from his bedroom. You must tread like a
policeman."
"It wasn't that. The thing was, you see, it was rather a rotten thing
to do, I suppose, but I turned on the gramophone."
"You - _what?_"
"The gramophone. It started playing 'The Quaint Old Bird.' Ripping it
was, till Wain came along."
Wyatt doubled up with noiseless laughter.
"You're a genius," he said. "I never saw such a man. Well, what's the
game now? What's the idea?"
"I think you'd better nip back along the wall and in through the
window, and I'll go back to the dining-room. Then it'll be all right
if Wain comes and looks into the dorm. Or, if you like, you might come
down too, as if you'd just woke up and thought you'd heard a row."
"That's not a bad idea. All right. You dash along then. I'll get
back."
Mr. Wain was still in the dining-room, drinking in the beauties of the
summer night through the open window. He gibbered slightly when Mike
reappeared.
"Jackson! What do you mean by running about outside the house in this
way! I shall punish you very heavily. I shall certainly report the
matter to the headmaster. I will not have boys rushing about the
garden in their pyjamas. You will catch an exceedingly bad cold. You
will do me two hundred lines, Latin and English. Exceedingly so. I
will not have it. Did you not hear me call to you?"
"Please, sir, so excited," said Mike, standing outside with his hands
on the sill.
"You have no business to be excited. I will not have it. It is
exceedingly impertinent of you."
"Please, sir, may I come in?"
"Come in! Of course, come in. Have you no sense, boy? You are laying
the seeds of a bad cold. Come in at once."
Mike clambered through the window.
"I couldn't find him, sir. He must have got out of the garden."
"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Wain. "Undoubtedly so. It was very wrong of
you to search for him. You have been seriously injured. Exceedingly
so"
He was about to say more on the subject when Wyatt strolled into the
room. Wyatt wore the rather dazed expression of one who has been
aroused from deep sleep. He yawned before he spoke.
"I thought I heard a noise, sir," he said.
He called Mr. Wain "father" in private, "sir" in public. The presence
of Mike made this a public occasion.
"Has there been a burglary?"
"Yes," said Mike, "only he has got away."
"Shall I go out into the garden, and have a look round, sir?" asked
Wyatt helpfully.
The question stung Mr. Wain into active eruption once more.
"Under no circumstances whatever," he said excitedly. "Stay where you
are, James. I will not have boys running about my garden at night. It
is preposterous. Inordinately so. Both of you go to bed immediately. I
shall not speak to you again on this subject. I must be obeyed
instantly. You hear me, Jackson? James, you understand me? To bed at
once. And, if I find you outside your dormitory again to-night, you
will both be punished with extreme severity. I will not have this lax
and reckless behaviour."
"But the burglar, sir?" said Wyatt.
"We might catch him, sir," said Mike.
Mr. Wain's manner changed to a slow and stately sarcasm, in much the
same way as a motor-car changes from the top speed to its first.
"I was under the impression," he said, in the heavy way almost
invariably affected by weak masters in their dealings with the
obstreperous, "I was distinctly under the impression that I had
ordered you to retire immediately to your dormitory. It is possible
that you mistook my meaning. In that case I shall be happy to repeat
what I said. It is also in my mind that I threatened to punish you
with the utmost severity if you did not retire at once. In these
circumstances, James - and you, Jackson - you will doubtless see the
necessity of complying with my wishes."
They made it so.
CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH MIKE IS DISCUSSED
Trevor and Clowes, of Donaldson's, were sitting in their study a week
after the gramophone incident, preparatory to going on the river. At
least Trevor was in the study, getting tea ready. Clowes was on the
window-sill, one leg in the room, the other outside, hanging over
space. He loved to sit in this attitude, watching some one else work,
and giving his views on life to whoever would listen to them. Clowes
was tall, and looked sad, which he was not. Trevor was shorter, and
very much in earnest over all that he did. On the present occasion he
was measuring out tea with a concentration worthy of a general
planning a campaign.
"One for the pot," said Clowes.
"All right," breathed Trevor. "Come and help, you slacker."
"Too busy."
"You aren't doing a stroke."
"My lad, I'm thinking of Life. That's a thing you couldn't do. I often
say to people, 'Good chap, Trevor, but can't think of Life. Give him a
tea-pot and half a pound of butter to mess about with,' I say, 'and
he's all right. But when it comes to deep thought, where is he? Among
the also-rans.' That's what I say."
"Silly ass," said Trevor, slicing bread. "What particular rot were you
thinking about just then? What fun it was sitting back and watching
other fellows work, I should think."
"My mind at the moment," said Clowes, "was tensely occupied with the
problem of brothers at school. Have you got any brothers, Trevor?"
"One. Couple of years younger than me. I say, we shall want some more
jam to-morrow. Better order it to-day."
"See it done, Tigellinus, as our old pal Nero used to remark. Where is
he? Your brother, I mean."
"Marlborough."
"That shows your sense. I have always had a high opinion of your
sense, Trevor. If you'd been a silly ass, you'd have let your people
send him here."
"Why not? Shouldn't have minded."
"I withdraw what I said about your sense. Consider it unsaid. I have a
brother myself. Aged fifteen. Not a bad chap in his way. Like the
heroes of the school stories. 'Big blue eyes literally bubbling over
with fun.' At least, I suppose it's fun to him. Cheek's what I call
it. My people wanted to send him here. I lodged a protest. I said,
'One Clowes is ample for any public school.'"
"You were right there," said Trevor.
"I said, 'One Clowes is luxury, two excess.' I pointed out that I was
just on the verge of becoming rather a blood at Wrykyn, and that I
didn't want the work of years spoiled by a brother who would think it
a rag to tell fellows who respected and admired me - - "
"Such as who?"
" - - Anecdotes of a chequered infancy. There are stories about me
which only my brother knows. Did I want them spread about the school?
No, laddie, I did not. Hence, we see my brother two terms ago, packing
up his little box, and tooling off to Rugby. And here am I at Wrykyn,
with an unstained reputation, loved by all who know me, revered by all
who don't; courted by boys, fawned upon by masters. People's faces
brighten when I throw them a nod. If I frown - - "
"Oh, come on," said Trevor.
Bread and jam and cake monopolised Clowes's attention for the next
quarter of an hour. At the end of that period, however, he returned to
his subject.
"After the serious business of the meal was concluded, and a simple
hymn had been sung by those present," he said, "Mr. Clowes resumed his
very interesting remarks. We were on the subject of brothers at
school. Now, take the melancholy case of Jackson Brothers. My heart
bleeds for Bob."
"Jackson's all right. What's wrong with him? Besides, naturally, young
Jackson came to Wrykyn when all his brothers had been here."
"What a rotten argument. It's just the one used by chaps' people, too.
They think how nice it will be for all the sons to have been at the
same school. It may be all right after they're left, but while they're
there, it's the limit. You say Jackson's all right. At present,
perhaps, he is. But the term's hardly started yet."
"Well?"
"Look here, what's at the bottom of this sending young brothers to the
same school as elder brothers?"
"Elder brother can keep an eye on him, I suppose."
"That's just it. For once in your life you've touched the spot. In
other words, Bob Jackson is practically responsible for the kid.
That's where the whole rotten trouble starts."
"Why?"
"Well, what happens? He either lets the kid rip, in which case he may
find himself any morning in the pleasant position of having to explain
to his people exactly why it is that little Willie has just received
the boot, and why he didn't look after him better: or he spends all
his spare time shadowing him to see that he doesn't get into trouble.
He feels that his reputation hangs on the kid's conduct, so he broods
over him like a policeman, which is pretty rotten for him and maddens
the kid, who looks on him as no sportsman. Bob seems to be trying the
first way, which is what I should do myself. It's all right, so far,
but, as I said, the term's only just started."
"Young Jackson seems all right. What's wrong with him? He doesn't
stick on side any way, which he might easily do, considering his
cricket."
"There's nothing wrong with him in that way. I've talked to him
several times at the nets, and he's very decent. But his getting into
trouble hasn't anything to do with us. It's the masters you've got to
consider."
"What's up? Does he rag?"
"From what I gather from fellows in his form he's got a genius for
ragging. Thinks of things that don't occur to anybody else, and does
them, too."
"He never seems to be in extra. One always sees him about on
half-holidays."
"That's always the way with that sort of chap. He keeps on wriggling
out of small rows till he thinks he can do anything he likes without
being dropped on, and then all of a sudden he finds himself up to the
eyebrows in a record smash. I don't say young Jackson will land
himself like that. All I say is that he's just the sort who does. He's
asking for trouble. Besides, who do you see him about with all the
time?"
"He's generally with Wyatt when I meet him."
"Yes. Well, then!"
"What's wrong with Wyatt? He's one of the decentest men in the
school."
"I know. But he's working up for a tremendous row one of these days,
unless he leaves before it comes off. The odds are, if Jackson's so
thick with him, that he'll be roped into it too. Wyatt wouldn't land
him if he could help it, but he probably wouldn't realise what he was
letting the kid in for. For instance, I happen to know that Wyatt
breaks out of his dorm. every other night. I don't know if he takes
Jackson with him. I shouldn't think so. But there's nothing to prevent
Jackson following him on his own. And if you're caught at that game,
it's the boot every time."
Trevor looked disturbed.
"Somebody ought to speak to Bob."
"What's the good? Why worry him? Bob couldn't do anything. You'd only
make him do the policeman business, which he hasn't time for, and
which is bound to make rows between them. Better leave him alone."
"I don't know. It would be a beastly thing for Bob if the kid did get
into a really bad row."
"If you must tell anybody, tell the Gazeka. He's head of Wain's, and
has got far more chance of keeping an eye on Jackson than Bob has."
"The Gazeka is a fool."
"All front teeth and side. Still, he's on the spot. But what's the
good of worrying. It's nothing to do with us, anyhow. Let's stagger
out, shall we?"
* * * * *
Trevor's conscientious nature, however, made it impossible for him to
drop the matter. It disturbed him all the time that he and Clowes were
on the river; and, walking back to the house, he resolved to see Bob
about it during preparation.
He found him in his study, oiling a bat.
"I say, Bob," he said, "look here. Are you busy?"
"No. Why?"
"It's this way. Clowes and I were talking - - "
"If Clowes was there he was probably talking. Well?"
"About your brother."
"Oh, by Jove," said Bob, sitting up. "That reminds me. I forgot to get
the evening paper. Did he get his century all right?"
"Who?" asked Trevor, bewildered.
"My brother, J. W. He'd made sixty-three not out against Kent in this
morning's paper. What happened?"
"I didn't get a paper either. I didn't mean that brother. I meant the
one here."
"Oh, Mike? What's Mike been up to?"
"Nothing as yet, that I know of; but, I say, you know, he seems a
great pal of Wyatt's."
"I know. I spoke to him about it."
"Oh, you did? That's all right, then."
"Not that there's anything wrong with Wyatt."
"Not a bit. Only he is rather mucking about this term, I hear. It's
his last, so I suppose he wants to have a rag."
"Don't blame him."
"Nor do I. Rather rot, though, if he lugged your brother into a row by
accident."
"I should get blamed. I think I'll speak to him again."
"I should, I think."
"I hope he isn't idiot enough to go out at night with Wyatt. If Wyatt
likes to risk it, all right. That's his look out. But it won't do for
Mike to go playing the goat too."
"Clowes suggested putting Firby-Smith on to him. He'd have more
chance, being in the same house, of seeing that he didn't come a
mucker than you would."
"I've done that. Smith said he'd speak to him."
"That's all right then. Is that a new bat?"
"Got it to-day. Smashed my other yesterday - against the school house."
Donaldson's had played a friendly with the school house during the
last two days, and had beaten them.
"I thought I heard it go. You were rather in form."
"Better than at the beginning of the term, anyhow. I simply couldn't
do a thing then. But my last three innings have been 33 not out, 18,
and 51.
"I should think you're bound to get your first all right."
"Hope so. I see Mike's playing for the second against the O.W.s."
"Yes. Pretty good for his first term. You have a pro. to coach you in
the holidays, don't you?"
"Yes. I didn't go to him much this last time. I was away a lot. But
Mike fairly lived inside the net."
"Well, it's not been chucked away. I suppose he'll get his first next
year. There'll be a big clearing-out of colours at the end of this
term. Nearly all the first are leaving. Henfrey'll be captain, I
expect."
"Saunders, the pro. at home, always says that Mike's going to be the
star cricketer of the family. Better than J. W. even, he thinks. I
asked him what he thought of me, and he said, 'You'll be making a lot
of runs some day, Mr. Bob.' There's a subtle difference, isn't there?
I shall have Mike cutting me out before I leave school if I'm not
careful."
"Sort of infant prodigy," said Trevor. "Don't think he's quite up to
it yet, though."
He went back to his study, and Bob, having finished his oiling and
washed his hands, started on his Thucydides. And, in the stress of
wrestling with the speech of an apparently delirious Athenian general,
whose remarks seemed to contain nothing even remotely resembling sense
and coherence, he allowed the question of Mike's welfare to fade from
his mind like a dissolving view.
CHAPTER VIII
A ROW WITH THE TOWN
The beginning of a big row, one of those rows which turn a school
upside down like a volcanic eruption and provide old boys with
something to talk about, when they meet, for years, is not unlike the
beginning of a thunderstorm.
You are walking along one seemingly fine day, when suddenly there is a
hush, and there falls on you from space one big drop. The next moment
the thing has begun, and you are standing in a shower-bath. It is just
the same with a row. Some trivial episode occurs, and in an instant
the place is in a ferment. It was so with the great picnic at Wrykyn.
The bare outlines of the beginning of this affair are included in a
letter which Mike wrote to his father on the Sunday following the Old
Wrykynian matches.
This was the letter:
"DEAR FATHER, - Thanks awfully for your letter. I hope you are quite
well. I have been getting on all right at cricket lately. My scores
since I wrote last have been 0 in a scratch game (the sun got in my
eyes just as I played, and I got bowled); 15 for the third against an
eleven of masters (without G. B. Jones, the Surrey man, and Spence);
28 not out in the Under Sixteen game; and 30 in a form match. Rather
decent. Yesterday one of the men put down for the second against the
O.W.'s second couldn't play because his father was very ill, so I
played. Wasn't it luck? It's the first time I've played for the
second. I didn't do much, because I didn't get an innings. They stop
the cricket on O.W. matches day because they have a lot of rotten
Greek plays and things which take up a frightful time, and half the
chaps are acting, so we stop from lunch to four. Rot I call it. So I
didn't go in, because they won the toss and made 215, and by the time
we'd made 140 for 6 it was close of play. They'd stuck me in eighth
wicket. Rather rot. Still, I may get another shot. And I made rather a
decent catch at mid-on. Low down. I had to dive for it. Bob played for