ancestors have played as children for centuries back would just about
save my life."
He left the dormitory, and Mike began to brood over his wrongs once
more.
Wyatt came back, brandishing a jug of water and a glass.
"Oh, for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, the
blushful Hippocrene! Have you ever tasted Hippocrene, young Jackson?
Rather like ginger-beer, with a dash of raspberry-vinegar. Very heady.
Failing that, water will do. A-ah!"
He put down the glass, and surveyed Mike, who had maintained a moody
silence throughout this speech.
"What's your trouble?" he asked. "For pains in the back try Ju-jar. If
it's a broken heart, Zam-buk's what you want. Who's been quarrelling
with you?"
"It's only that ass Firby-Smith."
"Again! I never saw such chaps as you two. Always at it. What was the
trouble this time? Call him a grinning ape again? Your passion for the
truth'll be getting you into trouble one of these days."
"He said I stuck on side."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"I mean, did he buttonhole you on your way to school, and say,
'Jackson, a word in your ear. You stick on side.' Or did he lead up to
it in any way? Did he say, 'Talking of side, you stick it on.' What
had you been doing to him?"
"It was the house-fielding."
"But you can't stick on side at house-fielding. I defy any one to.
It's too early in the morning."
"I didn't turn up."
"What! Why?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"No, but, look here, really. Did you simply bunk it?"
"Yes."
Wyatt leaned on the end of Mike's bed, and, having observed its
occupant thoughtfully for a moment, proceeded to speak wisdom for the
good of his soul.
"I say, I don't want to jaw - I'm one of those quiet chaps with
strong, silent natures; you may have noticed it - but I must put in
a well-chosen word at this juncture. Don't pretend to be dropping
off to sleep. Sit up and listen to what your kind old uncle's got to
say to you about manners and deportment. Otherwise, blood as you are
at cricket, you'll have a rotten time here. There are some things you
simply can't do; and one of them is bunking a thing when you're put
down for it. It doesn't matter who it is puts you down. If he's
captain, you've got to obey him. That's discipline, that 'ere is. The
speaker then paused, and took a sip of water from the carafe which
stood at his elbow. Cheers from the audience, and a voice 'Hear!
Hear!'"
Mike rolled over in bed and glared up at the orator. Most of his face
was covered by the water-jug, but his eyes stared fixedly from above
it. He winked in a friendly way, and, putting down the jug, drew a
deep breath.
"Nothing like this old '87 water," he said. "Such body."
"I like you jawing about discipline," said Mike morosely.
"And why, my gentle che-ild, should I not talk about discipline?"
"Considering you break out of the house nearly every night."
"In passing, rather rum when you think that a burglar would get it
hot for breaking in, while I get dropped on if I break out. Why
should there be one law for the burglar and one for me? But you were
saying - just so. I thank you. About my breaking out. When you're a
white-haired old man like me, young Jackson, you'll see that there
are two sorts of discipline at school. One you can break if you feel
like taking the risks; the other you mustn't ever break. I don't know
why, but it isn't done. Until you learn that, you can never hope to
become the Perfect Wrykynian like," he concluded modestly, "me."
Mike made no reply. He would have perished rather than admit it, but
Wyatt's words had sunk in. That moment marked a distinct epoch in his
career. His feelings were curiously mixed. He was still furious with
Firby-Smith, yet at the same time he could not help acknowledging to
himself that the latter had had the right on his side. He saw and
approved of Wyatt's point of view, which was the more impressive to
him from his knowledge of his friend's contempt for, or, rather,
cheerful disregard of, most forms of law and order. If Wyatt, reckless
though he was as regarded written school rules, held so rigid a
respect for those that were unwritten, these last must be things which
could not be treated lightly. That night, for the first time in his
life, Mike went to sleep with a clear idea of what the public school
spirit, of which so much is talked and written, really meant.
CHAPTER XX
THE TEAM IS FILLED UP
When Burgess, at the end of the conversation in the pavilion with Mr.
Spence which Bob Jackson had overheard, accompanied the cricket-master
across the field to the boarding-houses, he had distinctly made up his
mind to give Mike his first eleven colours next day. There was only
one more match to be played before the school fixture-list was
finished. That was the match with Ripton. Both at cricket and football
Ripton was the school that mattered most. Wrykyn did not always win
its other school matches; but it generally did. The public schools of
England divide themselves naturally into little groups, as far as
games are concerned. Harrow, Eton, and Winchester are one group:
Westminster and Charterhouse another: Bedford, Tonbridge, Dulwich,
Haileybury, and St. Paul's are a third. In this way, Wrykyn, Ripton,
Geddington, and Wilborough formed a group. There was no actual
championship competition, but each played each, and by the end of the
season it was easy to see which was entitled to first place. This
nearly always lay between Ripton and Wrykyn. Sometimes an exceptional
Geddington team would sweep the board, or Wrykyn, having beaten
Ripton, would go down before Wilborough. But this did not happen
often. Usually Wilborough and Geddington were left to scramble for the
wooden spoon.
Secretaries of cricket at Ripton and Wrykyn always liked to arrange
the date of the match towards the end of the term, so that they might
take the field with representative and not experimental teams. By July
the weeding-out process had generally finished. Besides which the
members of the teams had had time to get into form.
At Wrykyn it was the custom to fill up the team, if possible, before
the Ripton match. A player is likely to show better form if he has got
his colours than if his fate depends on what he does in that
particular match.
Burgess, accordingly, had resolved to fill up the first eleven just a
week before Ripton visited Wrykyn. There were two vacancies. One gave
him no trouble. Neville-Smith was not a great bowler, but he was
steady, and he had done well in the earlier matches. He had fairly
earned his place. But the choice between Bob and Mike had kept him
awake into the small hours two nights in succession. Finally he had
consulted Mr. Spence, and Mr. Spence had voted for Mike.
Burgess was glad the thing was settled. The temptation to allow
sentiment to interfere with business might have become too strong if
he had waited much longer. He knew that it would be a wrench
definitely excluding Bob from the team, and he hated to have to do it.
The more he thought of it, the sorrier he was for him. If he could
have pleased himself, he would have kept Bob In. But, as the poet has
it, "Pleasure is pleasure, and biz is biz, and kep' in a sepyrit jug."
The first duty of a captain is to have no friends.
From small causes great events do spring. If Burgess had not picked up
a particularly interesting novel after breakfast on the morning of
Mike's interview with Firby-Smith in the study, the list would have
gone up on the notice-board after prayers. As it was, engrossed in his
book, he let the moments go by till the sound on the bell startled him
into movement. And then there was only time to gather up his cap, and
sprint. The paper on which he had intended to write the list and the
pen he had laid out to write it with lay untouched on the table.
And, as it was not his habit to put up notices except during the
morning, he postponed the thing. He could write it after tea. After
all, there was a week before the match.
* * * * *
When school was over, he went across to the Infirmary to Inquire about
Marsh. The report was more than favourable. Marsh had better not see
any one just yet, In case of accident, but he was certain to be out in
time to play against Ripton.
"Doctor Oakes thinks he will be back in school on Tuesday."
"Banzai!" said Burgess, feeling that life was good. To take the field
against Ripton without Marsh would have been to court disaster.
Marsh's fielding alone was worth the money. With him at short slip,
Burgess felt safe when he bowled.
The uncomfortable burden of the knowledge that he was about
temporarily to sour Bob Jackson's life ceased for the moment to
trouble him. He crooned extracts from musical comedy as he walked
towards the nets.
Recollection of Bob's hard case was brought to him by the sight of
that about-to-be-soured sportsman tearing across the ground in the
middle distance in an effort to get to a high catch which Trevor had
hit up to him. It was a difficult catch, and Burgess waited to see if
he would bring it off.
Bob got to it with one hand, and held it. His impetus carried him on
almost to where Burgess was standing.
"Well held," said Burgess.
"Hullo," said Bob awkwardly. A gruesome thought had flashed across his
mind that the captain might think that this gallery-work was an
organised advertisement.
"I couldn't get both hands to it," he explained.
"You're hot stuff in the deep."
"Easy when you're only practising."
"I've just been to the Infirmary."
"Oh. How's Marsh?"
"They wouldn't let me see him, but it's all right. He'll be able to
play on Saturday."
"Good," said Bob, hoping he had said it as if he meant it. It was
decidedly a blow. He was glad for the sake of the school, of course,
but one has one's personal ambitions. To the fact that Mike and not
himself was the eleventh cap he had become partially resigned: but he
had wanted rather badly to play against Ripton.
Burgess passed on, his mind full of Bob once more. What hard luck it
was! There was he, dashing about in the sun to improve his fielding,
and all the time the team was filled up. He felt as if he were playing
some low trick on a pal.
Then the Jekyll and Hyde business completed itself. He suppressed his
personal feelings, and became the cricket captain again.
It was the cricket captain who, towards the end of the evening, came
upon Firby-Smith and Mike parting at the conclusion of a conversation.
That it had not been a friendly conversation would have been evident
to the most casual observer from the manner in which Mike stumped off,
swinging his cricket-bag as if it were a weapon of offence. There are
many kinds of walk. Mike's was the walk of the Overwrought Soul.
"What's up?" inquired Burgess.
"Young Jackson, do you mean? Oh, nothing. I was only telling him that
there was going to be house-fielding to-morrow before breakfast."
"Didn't he like the idea?"
"He's jolly well got to like it," said the Gazeka, as who should say,
"This way for Iron Wills." "The frightful kid cut it this morning.
There'll be worse trouble if he does it again."
There was, it may be mentioned, not an ounce of malice in the head
of Wain's house. That by telling the captain of cricket that Mike had
shirked fielding-practice he might injure the latter's prospects of a
first eleven cap simply did not occur to him. That Burgess would feel,
on being told of Mike's slackness, much as a bishop might feel if he
heard that a favourite curate had become a Mahometan or a Mumbo-Jumboist,
did not enter his mind. All he considered was that the story of his
dealings with Mike showed him, Firby-Smith, in the favourable and
dashing character of the fellow-who-will-stand-no-nonsense, a sort
of Captain Kettle on dry land, in fact; and so he proceeded to tell
it in detail.
Burgess parted with him with the firm conviction that Mike was a young
slacker. Keenness in fielding was a fetish with him; and to cut
practice struck him as a crime.
He felt that he had been deceived in Mike.
* * * * *
When, therefore, one takes into consideration his private bias in
favour of Bob, and adds to it the reaction caused by this sudden
unmasking of Mike, it is not surprising that the list Burgess made out
that night before he went to bed differed in an important respect from
the one he had intended to write before school.
Mike happened to be near the notice-board when he pinned it up. It was
only the pleasure of seeing his name down in black-and-white that made
him trouble to look at the list. Bob's news of the day before
yesterday had made it clear how that list would run.
The crowd that collected the moment Burgess had walked off carried him
right up to the board.
He looked at the paper.
"Hard luck!" said somebody.
Mike scarcely heard him.
He felt physically sick with the shock of the disappointment. For the
initial before the name Jackson was R.
There was no possibility of mistake. Since writing was invented, there
had never been an R. that looked less like an M. than the one on that
list.
Bob had beaten him on the tape.
CHAPTER XXI
MARJORY THE FRANK
At the door of the senior block Burgess, going out, met Bob coming in,
hurrying, as he was rather late.
"Congratulate you, Bob," he said; and passed on.
Bob stared after him. As he stared, Trevor came out of the block.
"Congratulate you, Bob."
"What's the matter now?"
"Haven't you seen?"
"Seen what?"
"Why the list. You've got your first."
"My - what? you're rotting."
"No, I'm not. Go and look."
The thing seemed incredible. Had he dreamed that conversation between
Spence and Burgess on the pavilion steps? Had he mixed up the names?
He was certain that he had heard Spence give his verdict for Mike, and
Burgess agree with him.
Just then, Mike, feeling very ill, came down the steps. He caught
sight of Bob and was passing with a feeble grin, when something told
him that this was one of those occasions on which one has to show a
Red Indian fortitude and stifle one's private feelings.
"Congratulate you, Bob," he said awkwardly.
"Thanks awfully," said Bob, with equal awkwardness. Trevor moved on,
delicately. This was no place for him. Bob's face was looking like a
stuffed frog's, which was Bob's way of trying to appear unconcerned
and at his ease, while Mike seemed as if at any moment he might burst
into tears. Spectators are not wanted at these awkward interviews.
There was a short silence.
"Jolly glad you've got it," said Mike.
"I believe there's a mistake. I swear I heard Burgess say to Spence - - "
"He changed his mind probably. No reason why he shouldn't."
"Well, it's jolly rummy."
Bob endeavoured to find consolation.
"Anyhow, you'll have three years in the first. You're a cert. for next
year."
"Hope so," said Mike, with such manifest lack of enthusiasm that Bob
abandoned this line of argument. When one has missed one's colours,
next year seems a very, very long way off.
They moved slowly through the cloisters, neither speaking, and up the
stairs that led to the Great Hall. Each was gratefully conscious of
the fact that prayers would be beginning in another minute, putting an
end to an uncomfortable situation.
"Heard from home lately?" inquired Mike.
Bob snatched gladly at the subject.
"Got a letter from mother this morning. I showed you the last one,
didn't I? I've only just had time to skim through this one, as the
post was late, and I only got it just as I was going to dash across to
school. Not much in it. Here it is, if you want to read it."
"Thanks. It'll be something to do during Math."
"Marjory wrote, too, for the first time in her life. Haven't had time
to look at it yet."
"After you. Sure it isn't meant for me? She owes me a letter."
"No, it's for me all right. I'll give it you in the interval."
The arrival of the headmaster put an end to the conversation.
* * * * *
By a quarter to eleven Mike had begun to grow reconciled to his fate.
The disappointment was still there, but it was lessened. These things
are like kicks on the shin. A brief spell of agony, and then a dull
pain of which we are not always conscious unless our attention is
directed to it, and which in time disappears altogether. When the bell
rang for the interval that morning, Mike was, as it were, sitting up
and taking nourishment.
He was doing this in a literal as well as in a figurative sense when
Bob entered the school shop.
Bob appeared curiously agitated. He looked round, and, seeing Mike,
pushed his way towards him through the crowd. Most of those present
congratulated him as he passed; and Mike noticed, with some surprise,
that, in place of the blushful grin which custom demands from the man
who is being congratulated on receipt of colours, there appeared on
his face a worried, even an irritated look. He seemed to have
something on his mind.
"Hullo," said Mike amiably. "Got that letter?"
"Yes. I'll show it you outside."
"Why not here?"
"Come on."
Mike resented the tone, but followed. Evidently something had happened
to upset Bob seriously. As they went out on the gravel, somebody
congratulated Bob again, and again Bob hardly seemed to appreciate
it.'
Bob led the way across the gravel and on to the first terrace. When
they had left the crowd behind, he stopped.
"What's up?" asked Mike.
"I want you to read - - "
"Jackson!"
They both turned. The headmaster was standing on the edge of the
gravel.
Bob pushed the letter into Mike's hands.
"Read that," he said, and went up to the headmaster. Mike heard the
words "English Essay," and, seeing that the conversation was
apparently going to be one of some length, capped the headmaster and
walked off. He was just going to read the letter when the bell rang.
He put the missive in his pocket, and went to his form-room wondering
what Marjory could have found to say to Bob to touch him on the raw to
such an extent. She was a breezy correspondent, with a style of her
own, but usually she entertained rather than upset people. No
suspicion of the actual contents of the letter crossed his mind.
He read it during school, under the desk; and ceased to wonder. Bob
had had cause to look worried. For the thousand and first time in her
career of crime Marjory had been and done it! With a strong hand she
had shaken the cat out of the bag, and exhibited it plainly to all
whom it might concern.
There was a curious absence of construction about the letter. Most
authors of sensational matter nurse their bomb-shell, lead up to
it, and display it to the best advantage. Marjory dropped hers into
the body of the letter, and let it take its chance with the other
news-items.
"DEAR BOB" (the letter ran), -
"I hope you are quite well. I am quite well. Phyllis has a cold,
Ella cheeked Mademoiselle yesterday, and had to write out 'Little
Girls must be polite and obedient' a hundred times in French. She
was jolly sick about it. I told her it served her right. Joe made
eighty-three against Lancashire. Reggie made a duck. Have you got
your first? If you have, it will be all through Mike. Uncle John
told Father that Mike pretended to hurt his wrist so that you could
play instead of him for the school, and Father said it was very
sporting of Mike but nobody must tell you because it wouldn't be
fair if you got your first for you to know that you owed it to Mike
and I wasn't supposed to hear but I did because I was in the room
only they didn't know I was (we were playing hide-and-seek and I was
hiding) so I'm writing to tell you,
"From your affectionate sister
"Marjory."
There followed a P.S.
"I'll tell you what you ought to do. I've been reading a jolly good
book called 'The Boys of Dormitory Two,' and the hero's an awfully
nice boy named Lionel Tremayne, and his friend Jack Langdale saves
his life when a beast of a boatman who's really employed by Lionel's
cousin who wants the money that Lionel's going to have when he grows
up stuns him and leaves him on the beach to drown. Well, Lionel is
going to play for the school against Loamshire, and it's _the_
match of the season, but he goes to the headmaster and says he wants
Jack to play instead of him. Why don't you do that?
"M.
"P.P.S. - This has been a frightful fag to write."
For the life of him Mike could not help giggling as he pictured what
Bob's expression must have been when his brother read this document.
But the humorous side of the thing did not appeal to him for long.
What should he say to Bob? What would Bob say to him? Dash it all, it
made him look such an awful _ass_! Anyhow, Bob couldn't do much.
In fact he didn't see that he could do anything. The team was filled
up, and Burgess was not likely to alter it. Besides, why should he
alter it? Probably he would have given Bob his colours anyhow. Still,
it was beastly awkward. Marjory meant well, but she had put her foot
right in it. Girls oughtn't to meddle with these things. No girl ought
to be taught to write till she came of age. And Uncle John had behaved
in many respects like the Complete Rotter. If he was going to let out
things like that, he might at least have whispered them, or looked
behind the curtains to see that the place wasn't chock-full of female
kids. Confound Uncle John!
Throughout the dinner-hour Mike kept out of Bob's way. But in a small
community like a school it is impossible to avoid a man for ever. They
met at the nets.
"Well?" said Bob.
"How do you mean?" said Mike.
"Did you read it?"
"Yes."
"Well, is it all rot, or did you - you know what I mean - sham a crocked
wrist?"
"Yes," said Mike, "I did."
Bob stared gloomily at his toes.
"I mean," he said at last, apparently putting the finishing-touch to
some train of thought, "I know I ought to be grateful, and all that. I
suppose I am. I mean it was jolly good of you - Dash it all," he broke
off hotly, as if the putting his position into words had suddenly
showed him how inglorious it was, "what did you want to do if
_for_? What was the idea? What right have you got to go about
playing Providence over me? Dash it all, it's like giving a fellow
money without consulting him."
"I didn't think you'd ever know. You wouldn't have if only that ass
Uncle John hadn't let it out."
"How did he get to know? Why did you tell him?"
"He got it out of me. I couldn't choke him off. He came down when you
were away at Geddington, and would insist on having a look at my arm,
and naturally he spotted right away there was nothing the matter with
it. So it came out; that's how it was."
Bob scratched thoughtfully at the turf with a spike of his boot.
"Of course, it was awfully decent - - "
Then again the monstrous nature of the affair came home to him.
"But what did you do it _for_? Why should you rot up your own
chances to give me a look in?"
"Oh, I don't know.... You know, you did _me_ a jolly good turn."
"I don't remember. When?"
"That Firby-Smith business."
"What about it?"
"Well, you got me out of a jolly bad hole."
"Oh, rot! And do you mean to tell me it was simply because of that - - ?"
Mike appeared to him in a totally new light. He stared at him as if he
were some strange creature hitherto unknown to the human race. Mike
shuffled uneasily beneath the scrutiny.
"Anyhow, it's all over now," Mike said, "so I don't see what's the
point of talking about it."
"I'm hanged if it is. You don't think I'm going to sit tight and take
my first as if nothing had happened?"
"What can you do? The list's up. Are you going to the Old Man to ask
him if I can play, like Lionel Tremayne?"
The hopelessness of the situation came over Bob like a wave. He looked
helplessly at Mike.
"Besides," added Mike, "I shall get in next year all right. Half a
second, I just want to speak to Wyatt about something."
He sidled off.
"Well, anyhow," said Bob to himself, "I must see Burgess about it."
CHAPTER XXII
WYATT IS REMINDED OF AN ENGAGEMENT
There are situations in life which are beyond one. The sensible man
realises this, and slides out of such situations, admitting himself
beaten. Others try to grapple with them, but it never does any good.
When affairs get into a real tangle, it is best to sit still and let
them straighten themselves out. Or, if one does not do that, simply to
think no more about them. This is Philosophy. The true philosopher is
the man who says "All right," and goes to sleep in his arm-chair.
One's attitude towards Life's Little Difficulties should be that of
the gentleman in the fable, who sat down on an acorn one day, and
happened to doze. The warmth of his body caused the acorn to
germinate, and it grew so rapidly that, when he awoke, he found
himself sitting in the fork of an oak, sixty feet from the ground. He
thought he would go home, but, finding this impossible, he altered his
plans. "Well, well," he said, "if I cannot compel circumstances to my
will, I can at least adapt my will to circumstances. I decide to
remain here." Which he did, and had a not unpleasant time. The oak
lacked some of the comforts of home, but the air was splendid and the
view excellent.
To-day's Great Thought for Young Readers. Imitate this man.
Bob should have done so, but he had not the necessary amount of
philosophy. He still clung to the idea that he and Burgess, in
council, might find some way of making things right for everybody.
Though, at the moment, he did not see how eleven caps were to be
divided amongst twelve candidates in such a way that each should have
one.
And Burgess, consulted on the point, confessed to the same inability
to solve the problem. It took Bob at least a quarter of an hour to get
the facts of the case into the captain's head, but at last Burgess
grasped the idea of the thing. At which period he remarked that it was
a rum business.
"Very rum," Bob agreed. "Still, what you say doesn't help us out much,
seeing that the point is, what's to be done?"
"Why do anything?"
Burgess was a philosopher, and took the line of least resistance, like
the man in the oak-tree.
"But I must do something," said Bob. "Can't you see how rotten it is
for me?"
"I don't see why. It's not your fault. Very sporting of your brother
and all that, of course, though I'm blowed if I'd have done it myself;
but why should you do anything? You're all right. Your brother stood
out of the team to let you in it, and here you _are_, in it.
What's he got to grumble about?"
"He's not grumbling. It's me."
"What's the matter with you? Don't you want your first?"
"Not like this. Can't you see what a rotten position it is for me?"
"Don't you worry. You simply keep on saying you're all right. Besides,
what do you want me to do? Alter the list?"
But for the thought of those unspeakable outsiders, Lionel Tremayne
and his headmaster, Bob might have answered this question in the
affirmative; but he had the public-school boy's terror of seeming to
pose or do anything theatrical. He would have done a good deal to put
matters right, but he could _not_ do the self-sacrificing young
hero business. It would not be in the picture. These things, if they
are to be done at school, have to be carried through stealthily, after
Mike's fashion.
"I suppose you can't very well, now it's up. Tell you what, though, I
don't see why I shouldn't stand out of the team for the Ripton match.
I could easily fake up some excuse."
"I do. I don't know if it's occurred to you, but the idea is rather to
win the Ripton match, if possible. So that I'm a lot keen on putting
the best team into the field. Sorry if it upsets your arrangements in
any way."
"You know perfectly well Mike's every bit as good as me."
"He isn't so keen."
"What do you mean?"
"Fielding. He's a young slacker."
When Burgess had once labelled a man as that, he did not readily let
the idea out of his mind.
"Slacker? What rot! He's as keen as anything."
"Anyhow, his keenness isn't enough to make him turn out for
house-fielding. If you really want to know, that's why you've
got your first instead of him. You sweated away, and improved
your fielding twenty per cent.; and I happened to be talking to
Firby-Smith and found that young Mike had been shirking his, so
out he went. A bad field's bad enough, but a slack field wants
skinning."
"Smith oughtn't to have told you."
"Well, he did tell me. So you see how it is. There won't be any
changes from the team I've put up on the board."
"Oh, all right," said Bob. "I was afraid you mightn't be able to do
anything. So long."
"Mind the step," said Burgess.
* * * * *
At about the time when this conversation was in progress, Wyatt,
crossing the cricket-field towards the school shop in search of
something fizzy that might correct a burning thirst acquired at the
nets, espied on the horizon a suit of cricket flannels surmounted by a
huge, expansive grin. As the distance between them lessened, he
discovered that inside the flannels was Neville-Smith's body and
behind the grin the rest of Neville-Smith's face. Their visit to the
nets not having coincided in point of time, as the Greek exercise
books say, Wyatt had not seen his friend since the list of the team
had been posted on the board, so he proceeded to congratulate him on
his colours.
"Thanks," said Neville-Smith, with a brilliant display of front teeth.
"Feeling good?"
"Not the word for it. I feel like - I don't know what."
"I'll tell you what you look like, if that's any good to you. That
slight smile of yours will meet behind, if you don't look out, and
then the top of your head'll come off."
"I don't care. I've got my first, whatever happens. Little Willie's
going to buy a nice new cap and a pretty striped jacket all for his
own self! I say, thanks for reminding me. Not that you did, but
supposing you had. At any rate, I remember what it was I wanted to
say to you. You know what I was saying to you about the bust I meant
to have at home in honour of my getting my first, if I did, which I
have - well, anyhow it's to-night. You can roll up, can't you?"
"Delighted. Anything for a free feed in these hard times. What time
did you say it was?"
"Eleven. Make it a bit earlier, if you like."
"No, eleven'll do me all right."
"How are you going to get out?"
"'Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.' That's what
the man said who wrote the libretto for the last set of Latin Verses
we had to do. I shall manage it."
"They ought to allow you a latch-key."
"Yes, I've often thought of asking my pater for one. Still, I get on
very well. Who are coming besides me?"
"No boarders. They all funked it."
"The race is degenerating."
"Said it wasn't good enough."
"The school is going to the dogs. Who did you ask?"
"Clowes was one. Said he didn't want to miss his beauty-sleep. And
Henfrey backed out because he thought the risk of being sacked wasn't
good enough."
"That's an aspect of the thing that might occur to some people. I
don't blame him - I might feel like that myself if I'd got another
couple of years at school."
"But one or two day-boys are coming. Clephane is, for one. And
Beverley. We shall have rather a rag. I'm going to get the things
now."
"When I get to your place - I don't believe I know the way, now I come
to think of it - what do I do? Ring the bell and send in my card? or
smash the nearest window and climb in?"
"Don't make too much row, for goodness sake. All the servants'll have
gone to bed. You'll see the window of my room. It's just above the
porch. It'll be the only one lighted up. Heave a pebble at it, and
I'll come down."
"So will the glass - with a run, I expect. Still, I'll try to do as
little damage as possible. After all, I needn't throw a brick."
"You _will_ turn up, won't you?"
"Nothing shall stop me."
"Good man."
As Wyatt was turning away, a sudden compunction seized upon
Neville-Smith. He called him back.
"I say, you don't think it's too risky, do you? I mean, you always are
breaking out at night, aren't you? I don't want to get you into a
row."
"Oh, that's all right," said Wyatt. "Don't you worry about me. I
should have gone out anyhow to-night."
CHAPTER XXIII
A SURPRISE FOR MR. APPLEBY
"You may not know it," said Wyatt to Mike in the dormitory that night,
"but this is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year."
Mike could not help thinking that for himself it was the very reverse,
but he did not state his view of the case.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Neville-Smith's giving a meal at his place in honour of his getting
his first. I understand the preparations are on a scale of the utmost
magnificence. No expense has been spared. Ginger-beer will flow like
water. The oldest cask of lemonade has been broached; and a sardine is
roasting whole in the market-place."
"Are you going?"
"If I can tear myself away from your delightful society. The kick-off
is fixed for eleven sharp. I am to stand underneath his window and
heave bricks till something happens. I don't know if he keeps a dog.
If so, I shall probably get bitten to the bone."
"When are you going to start?"
"About five minutes after Wain has been round the dormitories to see
that all's well. That ought to be somewhere about half-past ten."
"Don't go getting caught."
"I shall do my little best not to be. Rather tricky work, though,
getting back. I've got to climb two garden walls, and I shall probably
be so full of Malvoisie that you'll be able to hear it swishing about
inside me. No catch steeple-chasing if you're like that. They've no
thought for people's convenience here. Now at Bradford they've got
studies on the ground floor, the windows looking out over the
boundless prairie. No climbing or steeple-chasing needed at all. All
you have to do is to open the window and step out. Still, we must make
the best of things. Push us over a pinch of that tooth-powder of
yours. I've used all mine."
Wyatt very seldom penetrated further than his own garden on the
occasions when he roamed abroad at night. For cat-shooting the Wain
spinneys were unsurpassed. There was one particular dustbin where one
might be certain of flushing a covey any night; and the wall by the
potting-shed was a feline club-house.
But when he did wish to get out into the open country he had a special
route which he always took. He climbed down from the wall that ran
beneath the dormitory window into the garden belonging to Mr. Appleby,
the master who had the house next to Mr. Wain's. Crossing this, he
climbed another wall, and dropped from it into a small lane which
ended in the main road leading to Wrykyn town.
This was the route which he took to-night. It was a glorious July
night, and the scent of the flowers came to him with a curious
distinctness as he let himself down from the dormitory window. At any
other time he might have made a lengthy halt, and enjoyed the scents
and small summer noises, but now he felt that it would be better not
to delay. There was a full moon, and where he stood he could be seen
distinctly from the windows of both houses. They were all dark, it is
true, but on these occasions it was best to take no risks.
He dropped cautiously into Appleby's garden, ran lightly across it,
and was in the lane within a minute.
There he paused, dusted his trousers, which had suffered on the
two walls, and strolled meditatively in the direction of the town.
Half-past ten had just chimed from the school clock. He was in plenty
of time.
"What a night!" he said to himself, sniffing as he walked.
* * * * *
Now it happened that he was not alone in admiring the beauty of that
particular night. At ten-fifteen it had struck Mr. Appleby, looking
out of his study into the moonlit school grounds, that a pipe in the
open would make an excellent break in his night's work. He had
acquired a slight headache as the result of correcting a batch of
examination papers, and he thought that an interval of an hour in the
open air before approaching the half-dozen or so papers which still
remained to be looked at might do him good. The window of his study
was open, but the room had got hot and stuffy. Nothing like a little
fresh air for putting him right.
For a few moments he debated the rival claims of a stroll in the
cricket-field and a seat in the garden. Then he decided on the latter.
The little gate in the railings opposite his house might not be
open, and it was a long way round to the main entrance. So he took a
deck-chair which leaned against the wall, and let himself out of the
back door.
He took up his position in the shadow of a fir-tree with his back to
the house. From here he could see the long garden. He was fond of his
garden, and spent what few moments he could spare from work and games
pottering about it. He had his views as to what the ideal garden
should be, and he hoped in time to tinker his own three acres up to
the desired standard. At present there remained much to be done. Why
not, for instance, take away those laurels at the end of the lawn, and
have a flower-bed there instead? Laurels lasted all the year round,
true, whereas flowers died and left an empty brown bed in the winter,
but then laurels were nothing much to look at at any time, and a
garden always had a beastly appearance in winter, whatever you did to
it. Much better have flowers, and get a decent show for one's money in
summer at any rate.
The problem of the bed at the end of the lawn occupied his complete
attention for more than a quarter of an hour, at the end of which
period he discovered that his pipe had gone out.
He was just feeling for his matches to relight it when Wyatt dropped
with a slight thud into his favourite herbaceous border.
The surprise, and the agony of feeling that large boots were trampling
among his treasures kept him transfixed for just the length of time
necessary for Wyatt to cross the garden and climb the opposite wall.
As he dropped into the lane, Mr. Appleby recovered himself
sufficiently to emit a sort of strangled croak, but the sound was too
slight to reach Wyatt. That reveller was walking down the Wrykyn road
before Mr. Appleby had left his chair.
It is an interesting point that it was the gardener rather than the
schoolmaster in Mr. Appleby that first awoke to action. It was not the
idea of a boy breaking out of his house at night that occurred to him
first as particularly heinous; it was the fact that the boy had broken
out _via_ his herbaceous border. In four strides he was on the
scene of the outrage, examining, on hands and knees, with the aid of
the moonlight, the extent of the damage done.
As far as he could see, it was not serious. By a happy accident
Wyatt's boots had gone home to right and left of precious plants but
not on them. With a sigh of relief Mr. Appleby smoothed over the
cavities, and rose to his feet.
At this point it began to strike him that the episode affected him as
a schoolmaster also.
In that startled moment when Wyatt had suddenly crossed his line of