 Chapter 18-20 of Mike, a public school story by P.G. Woodhouse. Chapter 18 Bob has news to impart. Ricken went down badly before the Incogs. It generally happens at least once in a school cricket season that the team collapses hopelessly for no apparent reason. Some schools do it in nearly every match. But Ricken so far had been particularly fortunate this year. They had only been beaten once, and that by a mere twenty-odd runs in a hard-fought game. But on this particular day, against a not overwhelmingly strong side, they failed miserably. The weather may have had something to do with it, for rain fell early in the morning, and the school, batting first on the drying wicket, found themselves considerably puzzled by a slow left-hander. Morris and Barrage left with the score still short of ten, and after that the route began. Bob, going in fourth wicket, made a dozen, and Mike kept his end up and was not out eleven. But nobody except Wyatt, who hid out at everything and knocked up thirty before he was stumped, did anything to distinguish himself. The total was a hundred and seven, and the incogniti, batting when the wicket was easy, or doubled this. The general opinion of the school after this match was that either Mike or Bob would have to stand down from the team when it was definitely filled up. For Neville Smith, by showing up well with the ball against the incogniti when the others failed with the bat, made it practically certain that he would get one of the two vacancies. If I do, he said to Wyatt, there will be the biggest bust of modern times at my place. My patter is away for a holiday in Norway, and I am alone, bar the servants, and I can square them. Will you come? Tea? Tea, said Neville Smith scornfully. Well, what then? Don't you ever have feeds in the dorms after lights out in the houses? Those two, when I was a kid, too old now, have to look after my digestion. I remember three years ago, when Wayne's won the footer cup, we got up and fed at about two in the morning, all sorts of luxuries, sardines on sugar biscuits. I've got the taste in my mouth still. Do you remember McPherson? Left a couple of years ago? His food ran out, so he spread brown boot polish on bread and ate that. Got through a slice too. Little chap, but what about this thing of yours? What time is it going to be? 11, suit you? All right. How about getting out? I'll do it as quickly as the team did today. I can't say more than that. You were all right. I'm an exceptional sort of chap. What about the Jacksons? That's going to be a close thing. If Bob's fielding were to improve suddenly, he would just do it, but young Mike's all over him as a bat. In a year or two, that kid will be a marvel. He's bound to get in next year, of course, so perhaps it would be better if Bob got the place as it's his last season. Still, one wants the best man, of course. Mike avoided Bob as much as possible during this anxious period, and he privately thought it rather tactless of the latter when, meeting him one day outside Donaldson's, he insisted on his coming in and having some tea. Mike shuffled uncomfortably as his brother filled the kettle and lit the etna. It required more tact than he had at his disposal to carry off a situation like this. Bob, being older, was more at his ease. He got tea ready, making the sultry conversation the while, as if there were no particular reason why either of them should feel uncomfortable in the other's presence. When he had finished, he poured Mike out a cup, passed him the bread, and sat down. Haven't seen much of each other lately, Mike what? Mike murmured unintelligibly through a mouth full of bread and jam. It's no good pretending it isn't an awkward situation, continued Bob, because it is. Beastly awkward. Awful rot the pat are sending us to the same school. Oh, I don't know, we've all been at Ricken, pity to spoil the record. It's your fault for being such a young infant prodigy and mine for not being able to feel like an ordinary human being. Or get on much better in the deep. Bit better, yes, liable at any moment to miss a sitter, though. Not that it matters much, really, whether I do now. Mike stared. What? Why? That's what I wanted to see you about. Has Burgess said anything to you yet? No, why? What about? Well, I have a sort of idea our little race is over. I fancy you've won. I've not heard of work. I have. I'll tell you what makes me think the thing settled. I was in the Pave just now, in the first room, trying to find a batting glove I'd mislaid. There was a copy of the Rikinian lying on the mantelpiece, and I picked it up and started reading it. So there wasn't any noise to show anybody outside that there was someone in the room, and then I heard Burgess and Spence join on the steps. They thought the place was empty, of course. I couldn't help hearing what they said. The Pave's like a sounding board. I heard every word. Spence said, well, it's about as difficult a problem as any captain of cricket at Rikin has ever had to tackle. I had a sort of idea that old Billy liked to boss things all on his own, but apparently he does consult Spence sometimes. After all, he's cricket master, and that's what he's there for. Well, Billy said, I don't know what to do. What do you think, sir? Spence said, well, I'll give you my opinion, Burgess, but don't feel bound to act on it. I'm simply saying what I think. Yes, sir, said old Bill, doing a big young disciple with wise master act. I think Elm, said Spence, decidedly Elm. He's a shade better than our now, and in a year or two, of course, there'll be no comparison. Oh, rot, muttered Mike, wiping the sweat off his forehead. This was one of the most harrowing interviews he had ever been through. Not at all. Billy agreed with him. That's just what I think, sir, he said. It's rough on Bob, but still. And then they walked down the steps. I waited a bit to give them a good start, and then sheared off myself and so home. Mike looked at the floor and said nothing. There was nothing much to be said. Well, what I wanted to see you about was this, resumed Bob. I don't propose to kiss you or anything, but on the other hand, don't let's go to the other extreme. I'm not saying it isn't a bit of a brick just missing my cap like this, but it would have been just as bad for you if you'd been the one dropped. It's the fortune of war. I don't want you to go about feeling that you've blighted my life and so on, and dashing up side streets to avoid me because you think the sight of you will be painful. As it isn't me, I'm jolly glad it's you, and I shall catch a seed in the pavilion from you when you're playing for England at the Oval. Congratulate you. It was the custom at Wiccan when you congratulated a man on getting colors to shake his hand. They shook hands. Thanks awfully, Bob, said Mike, and after that there seemed to be nothing much to talk about. So Mike edged out of the room and tore across to wanes. He was sorry for Bob, but he would not have been human, which he certainly was, if the triumph of having won through at last into the first eleven had not dwarfed commiseration. It had been his one ambition, and now he had achieved it. The annoying part of the thing was that he had nobody to talk to about it. Until the news was official he could not mention it to the common herd. It wouldn't do. The only possible confident was Wyatt, and Wyatt was at Bisley, shooting with the school eight for the Ashburton, for bull's eyes as well as cats came within Wyatt's range as a marksman. Cricket took up too much of his time for him to be captain of the eight, and the man chosen to shoot for the Spencer, as he would otherwise almost certainly have been, but even though short of practice he was well up in the team. Until he returned Mike could tell nobody, and by the time he returned the notice would probably be up in the senior block with the other cricket notices. In this fermenting state Mike went into the house. The list of the team to play for Waynes versus Seymour's on the following Monday was on the board, as he passed it a few words scrawled in pencil at the bottom caught his eye. All the above will turn out for House Fielding at six thirty tomorrow morning, WFS. Oh, dash it, said Mike, what rot? Why on earth can't he leave us alone? Forgetting up an hour before his customary time for rising was not among Mike's favorite pastimes. Still orders were orders he felt it would have to be done. Chapter 19 Mike Goes to Sleep Again Mike was a stout supporter of the view that sleep in large quantities is good for one. He belonged to the school of thought which holds that a man becomes plain and pasty if deprived of his full spell in bed. He aimed at the peach bloom complexion. To be routed out of bed a clear hour before the proper time, even on a summer morning, was not, therefore, a prospect that appealed to him. When he woke it seemed even less attractive than it had done when he went to sleep. He had banged his head on the pillow six times overnight, and this silent alarm proved effective as it always does. Reaching out a hand for his watch he found that it was five minutes past six. This was to the good. He could manage another quarter of an hour between the sheets. It would only take him ten minutes to wash and get into his flannels. He took his quarter of an hour and a little more. He woke from a sort of dose to find that it was twenty-five past. Man's inability to get out of bed in the morning is a curious thing. One may reason with oneself clearly and forcibly without the slightest effect. One knows that delay means inconvenience. Perhaps it may spoil one's whole day, and one also knows that a single resolute heave will do the trick. But logic is of no use. One simply lies there. Mike thought he would take another minute. And during that minute there floated into his mind the question, Who was Furby Smith? That was the point. Who was he after all? This started quite a new train of thought. Previously Mike had firmly intended to get up, sometime. Now he began to waver. The more he considered the gazegas' insignificance and futility and his own magnificence, the more outrageous didn't seem that he should be dragged out of bed to please Furby Smith's vapid mind. Here was he about to receive his first eleven colors on this very day probably, being ordered about inconvenienced, in short, put upon by a worm who had only just scraped into the third. Was this right, he asked himself? Was this proper? And the hands of the watch moved round to twenty-two. What was the matter with his fielding? It was all right. Make the rest of the team fag about, yes, but not a chap who, dash it all, had got his first four-fielding. It was with almost a feeling of self-righteousness that Mike turned over on his side and went to sleep again. And outside in the cricket field, the massive mind of the gazega was filled with rage, as it was gradually borne in upon him that this was not a question of mere lateness, which, he felt, would be bad enough. For when he said six-thirty, he meant six-thirty, but of actual desertion. It was time, he said to himself, that the foot of authority was set firmly down, and the strong right hand of justice allowed to put in some energetic work. His comments on the team's fielding that morning were bitter and sarcastic. His eyes gleamed behind their pounce-nay. The painful interview took place after breakfast. The head of the house dispatched his fag in search of Mike and waited. He paced up and down the room, like a hungry lion, adjusting his pounce-nay, a thing, by the way, which lions seldom do, and behaving in other respects like a monarch of the desert. One would have felt, looking at him, that Mike, in coming to his den, was doing a deed which would make the achievement of Daniel seem in comparison like the tentative effort of some timid novice. And certainly Mike was not without qualms as he knocked at the door, and went in in response to the hoarse roar from the other side of it. Furby Smith straightened his tie and glared. Young Jackson, he said, looked here. I want to know what it all means, and jolly quick. You weren't at house fielding this morning. Didn't you see the notice? Mike admitted that he had seen the notice. Then, you frightful kid, what do you mean by it? What? Mike hesitated. Offly embarrassing this, his real reason for not turning up to house fielding was that he considered himself above such things, and Furby Smith a toothy weed. Could he give this excuse? He had not his book of etiquette by him at the moment, but he rather fancied not. There was no arguing against the fact that the head of the house was a toothy weed, but he felt a firm conviction that it would not be politic to say so. Happy thought overslept himself. He mentioned this, overslept yourself. You must jolly well not oversleep yourself. What do you mean by oversleeping yourself? Very trying this sort of thing. What time did you wake up? Six, said Mike. It was not according to his complicated yet intelligible code of morality to tell lies to save himself. When others were concerned, he could suppress the true and suggest the false with a face of brass. Six, five passed. Why didn't you get up then? I went to sleep again. Oh, you went to sleep again, did you? Well, just listen to me. I've had my eye on you for some time, and I've seen it coming on. You've got swelled head, young man. That's what you've got. Frightful, swelled head. You think the place belongs to you? I don't, said Mike indignantly. Yes, you do, said the gazika shrilly. You think the whole frightful place belongs to you. You go siding about as if you'd bought it, just because you've got your second. You think you can do what you like. Turn up or not as you please. It doesn't matter whether I'm only in the third and you're in the first. That's got nothing to do with it. The point is that you're one of the house team, and I'm captain of it. So you've jolly well got to turn out for fielding with the others when I think it necessary. See, Mike said nothing. Do you see, you frightful kid? Mike remained stonely silent, the rather large grain of truth in what Furby Smith had said had gone home, as the unpleasant truth about ourselves is apt to do, and his feelings were hurt. He was determined not to give in and say that he saw, even if the head of the house invoked all the majesty of the prefect's room to help him, as he had nearly done once before. He set his teeth and stared at a photograph on the wall. Furby Smith's manner became ominously calm. He produced a swagger stick from a corner. Do you see? He asked again. Mike's jaw set more tightly. What one really wants here is a row of stars. This is followed by a row of stars. Mike was still full of his injuries when Wyatt came back. Wyatt was worn out, but cheerful. The school had finished six for the Ashburton, which was an improvement of eight places on their last year's form, and he himself had scored 30 at the 227 at the 500 totals, which had put him in a very good humor with the world. My ancient skill has not deserted me, he said. That's the cats. The man who can wing a cat by moonlight can put a bullet where he likes on a target. I didn't hit the bull every time, but that was to give the other fellows a chance. My fatal modesty has always been a hindrance to me in life, and I suppose it always will be. Well, well, and what of the old homestead? Anything happened since I went away? The old father, is he well? Has the lost will been discovered, or is there a mortgage on the family estate? By jove, I could do with a stout of melvoise. I wonder if the moat's gone to bed yet. I'll go down and look. A jug of water drawn from the well in the old courtyard, where my ancestors have played his children for centuries back, would just about save my life. He left the dormitory and might begin 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 hypochrine. Have you ever tasted hypochrine, young Jackson? Rather like ginger beer with a dash of raspberry vinegar, very heady, veiling that water will do. 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 jujar. If it's a broken heart, zambuck's what you want. Who's been quarreling with you? It's only that ass, Furby 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 will be getting you into trouble one of these days. He said, I stuck on side. Why? I don't know. I mean, did he button hold 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 in house fielding. I defy anyone 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. Why it 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, put you down. If he's captain, you've got to obey him. That's discipline, that air is. The speaker then paused and took a sip of water from the carafe, which stood at his elbow. Cheers from the audience and the voice, here, here. Mike crawled 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 eighty-seven water, he said, such body. I like you jarring about discipline, said Mike morosely. And why, my gentle child, should I not talk about discipline? Considering you break out of the house nearly every night. In passing, rather roam 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 bikini and light, he concluded modestly, me. Mike made no reply. He would have perished, rather than admitted, but Wyatt's words had sunk in. That moment marked a distinct epic in his career. His feelings were curiously mixed. He was still furious with Furby 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 friends' contempt for, or rather cheerfulness regard 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 20 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 colors 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. Rickon 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, Eaton, and Winchester are one group, Westminster and Charter House another, Bedford, Townbridge, Dulloch, Haleybury, and St. Paul's are a third. In this way, Rickon, Ripton, Gettington, and Wilburah 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 Rickon. Sometimes an exceptional Gettington team would sweep the board, or Rickon having beaten Ripton would go down before Wilburah, but this did not happen often. Usually Wilburah and Gettington were left to scramble for the wooden spoon. Secretaries of cricket at Ripton and Rickon always like 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 Rickon 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 colors than if his fate depends on what he does in that particular match. Burgess, accordingly, had resolved to fill up the first 11 just a week before Ripton visited Rickon. 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 sorry-er 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 kept in a sapirite 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 in the morning of Mike's interview with Furby Smith in the study, the list would have gone up on the notice board after prayers. As it was, and grossed in his book, he let the moments go by till the sound of 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 favorable. Marsh had better not see anyone just yet in case of accident, but he was certain to be out in time to play against Ripton. Dr. Oaks thinks he will be back in school on Tuesday. Bonsai, 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-sourced 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. Hello, said Bob awkwardly. A gruesome thought had flashed across his mind that the captain might think that this gallery work was an organized advertisement. I couldn't get both hands to it, he explained. Your hot stuff in the deep, easy when you're only practicing. 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 Furby 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 offense. 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 tomorrow before breakfast. Didn't he like the idea? He's jolly well got to like it, said the gazika, 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 Wayne'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. The Burgess would feel on being told of Mike's slackness much as a bishop might feel if he heard that a favorite curate had become a Mohammedan or a mumbo-jumboist, did not enter his mind. All he considered was that the story of his dealings with Mike showed him, Furby Smith, in the favorable 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. Keyness and fielding was a fetish with him, and a 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 favor of Bob and adds to it the reaction caused by the 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. End of chapter 20. End of section. Chapters 21 through 23 of Mike. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mike, a public school story by P.G. Woodhouse. Chapter 21, Marjorie the Frank. At the door of the senior block, Burgess going out met Bob coming in, hurrying as he was rather late. Congratulations, Bob, he said and passed on. Bob stared after him. As he stared, Trevor came out of the block. Congratulations, Bob. What's the matter now? Haven't you seen? Seen what? Where the list you've got your first. My what? You're rotting. No, I'm not going look. The things 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. Congratulations, 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 frogs, 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 endeavored to find consolation. Anyhow, you'll have three years in the first. You're assert for next year. Help so, said Mike, with such manifest lack of enthusiasm that Bob abandoned this line of argument. When one has missed one's colors, 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. Marjorie 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 to 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 in 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 colors, there appeared on his face a worried, even an irritated look. He seemed to have something on his mind. Hello, said Mike amably. Got that letter? Yes, I'll show it to 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 onto 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 marjorie 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, marjorie 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 nursed their bombshell, lead up to it and display it to the best advantage. Marjorie 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 checked mademoiselle yesterday and had to write out little girls must be polite and obedient 100 times in French. She was jolly sick about it. I told her it served her right. Joe made 83 against Lancashire. Reggie made a doc. 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 owe 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, Marjorie. They followed a PS. I'll tell you what you ought to do. I've been reading a jolly good book called The Boys of Dormitory 2 and the hero is an awfully nice boy named Lionel Tremaine 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. PPS. 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 colors anyhow. Still, it was beastly awkward. Marjorie 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 robber. 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. Come found, 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 forever. They met at the net. Well, said Bob. How do you mean? Said Mike. Did you read it? Yes. Well, is it all right or did you know what I mean? Sham a crock 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, at all. He broke off hotly as if the putting his position in the words had suddenly showed him how inglorious it was. What did you want to do it for? What was the idea? What right have you got to go about playing Providence over me? Dash, at all, it's like giving a fellow money without consulting. 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 Gettington and would insist on having a look at my arm. And naturally, he spotted right away there was nothing to matter with it. So it came out, that's how it was. Bob scratched thoughtfully at the turf with the spike of his boot. Of course, it was awful. Of course, it was awfully decent. Then again, the monstrous nature of the fair came home to him. But what did you do it for? Why should you write 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 Furby Smith business. What about it? Well, you got me out of a jolly bad hole. Oh, right. 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? What's up? Are you going to the old man to ask him if I can play like Lionel Tremaine? The hopelessness of the situation came over Bob like a wave. He looked helplessly at Mike. Decides, added Mike, I should 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. 22. Wyatt is reminded of an engagement. There are situations in life which are beyond one. The sensible man realizes 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 woke he found himself sitting in the fork of an oak 60 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 decided 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. Today'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 Tremaine and his headmaster Bob might have answered this question in the affirmative. But he had the public school boys 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 labeled a man as that, he did not readily let the idea out of his mind. Slacker? What rod? 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 he's so keen on putting the best teams instead of him, you sweat it away and improved your fielding twenty percent. And I happened to be talking to Furby Smith and found that young Mike had been shirking his, so all 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, a spy down the horizon, a suit of cricket flannels, mounted 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 colors. 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 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 will 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 at home in honor of my getting my first? If I did, which I have. Well, anyhow, it's tonight. 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 will 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 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 pattern for one. Still, I get on very well. Who are coming besides me? No borders. 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? Klaus was one. He missed his beauty sleep and Henry 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 got another couple of years at school. But one or two day boys are coming. Clefane is for one and Beverly 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 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 brow for goodness sake. All the servants will 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 need 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 tonight. Chapter 23 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 honor 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 marketplace. Are you going? If I can tear myself away from your delightful society the kickoff 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 Wayne has been around the dormitories to see that all is 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 melvoise that you'll be able to hear it swishing about inside me. No catch steeple chasing if you like that. They've no thought for people's convenience here. Now at Bradford they've got studies on the ground floor. The window is looking out over the boundless prairie. No climbing or steeple chasing needed at all. All you have to do is 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. Why it very seldom penetrated further than his own garden on the occasions when he roamed abroad at night. For cat shooting the Wayne spinnies were unsurpassed. There was one particular dust bin where one might be certain of flushing a covey any night and the wall by the potting shed was a feline clubhouse. 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. Wayne's. Crossing this he climbed another wall and dropped from it into a small lane which ended in the main road leading to Rickentown. This was the route which he took tonight. 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 a 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 remain 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 in the garden. Then he decided on the ladder. The little gate and 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 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 favorite quarter. 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 reveler was walking down the Ricken Road before Mr. Appleby had left his chair. It is an interesting point that it was the gardener rather than the schoolmaster and 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 erratious 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 vision as he left the flower bed there was no doubt in his mind as to the identity of the intruder. He paused wondering how he should act. It was not an easy question. There was nothing of the spy about Mr. Appleby. He went his way openly liked and respected by boys and masters. He always played the game. The difficulty here was to say exactly what the game was. Sentiment of course made him forget the episode treated as what happened. That was the simple way out of the difficulty. There was nothing unsporting about Mr. Appleby. He knew that there were times when a master might without blame close his eyes or look the other way. If he had met Wyatt out of bounds in the daytime and it had been possible to convey the impression that he had not seen him he would have done so. To be out of bounds is not a particularly deadly sin. Breaking out at night, however, was a different thing altogether. It was on another plane. There are times when a master must waive sentiment and remember that he is in a position of trust and owes a duty directly to his headmaster and indirectly through the headmaster to the parents. He receives a salary for doing this duty and if he feels that sentiment is too strong for him he should resign in favor of someone of tougher fiber. The conclusion to which Mr. Appleby came over his relighted pipe he could not let the matter rest where it was. In ordinary circumstances it would have been his duty to report the affair to the headmaster but in the present case he thought that a slightly different course might be pursued. He would lay the whole thing before Mr. Wayne and leave him to deal with it as he thought best. It was one of the few cases where it was possible for an assistant master to fulfill his duty to a parent directly instead of through the agency of the headmaster. Knocking out the ashes of his pipe against a tree he folded his deck chair and went into the house. The examination papers were spread invitingly on the table but they would have to wait. He turned down his lamp and walked round to Wayne's. There was a light in one of the ground floor windows. He tapped on the window and the sound of a chair being pushed back told him that he had been heard. He looked up and he had a view of a room lettered with books and papers in the middle of which stood Mr. Wayne like a sea beast among rocks. Mr. Wayne recognized his visitor and opened the window. Mr. Appleby could not help feeling how like Wayne it was to work on a warm summer's night in a hermetically sealed room. There was always something queer and eccentric about why it stepped farther. Can I have a word with you, Wayne? He said. Mr. Appleby. Is there anything to matter? I was startled when you tapped exceedingly so. Sorry, said Mr. Appleby, wouldn't have disturbed you only at something important. I'll climb in through here, shall I? No need to unlock the door. And greatly to Mr. Wayne's surprise and rather to his disapproval Mr. Appleby vaulted onto the window sill and squeezed through into the room. End of section. Chapters 24 through Chapter 26 of Mike This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Mike, A Public School Story by PG Woodhouse Chapter 24 Caught Got some rather bad news for you, I'm afraid, began Mr. Appleby. I'll smoke, if you don't mind. About Wyatt. James. I was sitting in my garden a few minutes ago, having a pipe before finishing the rest of my papers and Wyatt dropped from the wall onto my herbaceous border. Mr. Appleby said this with a tinge of bitterness. The thing still rankled. James, in your garden, impossible. Wyatt is not a quarter of an hour since I left him in his dormitory. Not there now. You astound me, Appleby. I am astonished. So was I. How is such a thing possible? His window is heavily barred. Bars can be removed. You must have been mistaken. Possibly, said Mr. Appleby, a little meddled. Gaping astonishment is always apt to be irritating. Let's leave it at that then. Sorry to have disturbed you. No. Sit down, Appleby. Dear me, this is most extraordinary. Exceedingly so. You are certain it was James. Perfectly. It's like daylight out of doors. Mr. Wayne drummed on the table with his fingers. What shall I do? Mr. Appleby offered no suggestion. I ought to report it to the headmaster. That is certainly the course I should pursue. I don't see why. It isn't like an ordinary case. You are the parent. You can deal with the thing directly. If you come to think of it, a headmaster is only a sort of middleman between boys and parents. He plays substitute for the parent in his absence. I don't see why you should drag in the master at all here. There is certainly something in what you say, said Mr. Wayne, on reflection. A good deal. Tackle the boy when he comes in so that it must mean expulsion if you report him to the headmaster. He would have no choice. Everybody who has ever broken out of his house here and been caught has been expelled. I should strongly advise you to deal with the thing yourself. I will. Yes. You are quite right, Appleby. This is a very good idea of yours. You are not going. Must. Got a pile of examination papers to look over. Good night. Mr. Appleby made his way out of the window and through the gate into his own territory in a pensive frame of mind. He was wondering what would happen. He had taken the only possible course. And if only Wayne kept his head and did not let the matter get through officially to the headmaster, things might not be so bad for Wyatt, after all. He hoped they would not. He liked Wyatt. It would be a thousand pitties for him to be expelled. What would Wayne do? What would he do in a similar case? It was difficult to say. Probably talk violently for as long as he could keep it up and then consider the episode closed. He doubted whether Wayne would have the common sense to do this. Altogether it was very painful and disturbing. And he was taking a rather gloomy view of the assistant master's lot as he sat down to finish off the examination papers. It was not all roses the life of an assistant master at a public school. He had continually to be sinking his own individual sympathies in the claims of his duty. Mr. Appleby was the last man who would willingly have reported a boy for enjoying a midnight ramble. But he was the last man to shirk the duty of reporting him merely because it was one decidedly not to his taste. After his companion had left pondering over the news he had heard. Even now he clung to the idea that Appleby had made some extraordinary mistake. Gradually he began to convince himself of this. He had seen Wyatt actually in bed a quarter of an hour before. Not asleep it was true but apparently on the verge of dropping off. And the bars across the window had looked so solid. Seeing something of the kind might easily have happened he had been working hard and the night was warm. Then it occurred to him that he could easily prove or disprove the truth of his colleague's statement by going to the dormitory and seeing if Wyatt were there or not. If he had gone out he would hardly have returned yet. He took a candle and walked quietly upstairs. Arrived at his stepson's dormitory softly and went in. The light of the candle fell on both beds. Mike was there asleep. He grunted and turned over with his face to the wall as the light shone on his eyes. But the other bed was empty. Appleby had been right. If further proof had been needed one of the bars was missing from the window. The moon shone in through the empty space. The housemaster sat down quietly on the vacant bed. He blew the candle out and waited there in the semi-darkness thinking. For years he and Wyatt had lived in a state of armed neutrality broken by various small encounters. Lately by silent but mutual agreement they had kept out of each other's way as much as possible and it had become rare for the housemaster to have to find fault officially with his stepson. But there had never been anything approaching friendship between them. Mr. Wayne was not a man who inspired affection readily least of all in those many years younger than himself. Nor did he easily grow fond of others. Wyatt he had regarded from the moment when the threads of their lives became entangled as a complete nuisance. It was not therefore a sorrowful so much as an exasperated vigil that he kept in the dormitory. There was nothing of a sorrowing father about his frame of mind. He was the housemaster about to deal with a mutineer and nothing else. This breaking out, he reflected wrathfully, was the last straw. Wyatt's presence had been a nervous inconvenience to him for years. The time had come to put an end to it. It was with a comfortable feeling of magnanimity that he resolved not to report the breach of discipline to the headmaster. Wyatt should not be expelled but he should leave and that immediately. He would write to the bank before he went to bed, asking them to receive his stepson at once. And the letters should go by the first post next day. The discipline of the bank would be salutary and steadying, and this was a particularly grateful reflection. A fortnight annually was the limit of the holiday allowed by the management to its junior employees. Mr. Wayne had arrived at this conclusion and was beginning to feel a little cramped when Mike Jackson suddenly sat up. Hello, said Mike. Go to sleep, Jackson, immediately, snapped the housemaster. Mike had often heard and read of people's hearts sleeping to their mouths but he had never before experienced that sensation of something hot and dry springing in the throat which is what really happens to us on receipt of a bad shock. A sickening feeling that the game was up beyond all hope of salvation came to him. He lay down again without a word. What a frightful thing to happen. How on earth had this come about? What in the world had brought Wayne to the dormitory at that hour? Poor old Wyatt? If it had upset him, Mike, to see the housemaster in the room, what would be the effect of such a sight on Wyatt, who travels at Neville Smith's? And what could he do? Nothing. There was literally no way out. His mind went back to the night when he had saved Wyatt by a brilliant coup. The most brilliant of coups could affect nothing now. Absolutely and entirely, the game was up. Every minute that passed seemed like an hour to Mike. Dead silence reigned in the dormitory, broken every now and then the other bed as the housemaster shifted his position. Twelve boomed across the field from the school clock. Mike could not help thinking what a perfect night it must be for him to be able to hear the strokes so plainly. He strained his ears for any indication of Wyatt's approach, but could hear nothing. Then a very faint scraping noise broke the stillness, and presently the patch of moonlight on the floor was darkened. At that moment Mr. Wayne relit his candle. The unexpected glare took Wyatt momentarily aback. Mike saw him start. Then he seemed to recover himself. In a calm and leisurely manner he climbed into the room. James said Mr. Wayne, his voice sounded ominously hollow. Wyatt dusted his knees and rubbed his hands together. Hello, is that you father? He said pleasantly. Chapter 25 Marching Orders A silence followed. To Mike lying in bed holding his breath it seemed a long silence. As a matter of fact it lasted for perhaps ten seconds. Then Mr. Wayne spoke. You have been out, James. It is curious how in the more dramatic moments of life the inane remark is the first that comes to us. Yes, sir, said Wyatt. I am astonished, exceedingly astonished. I got a bit of a start myself, said Wyatt. I shall talk to you in my study. Follow me there. Yes, sir. He left the room and Wyatt suddenly began to chuckle. I say, Wyatt, said Mike completely thrown off his balance by the events of the night. Wyatt continued to giggle helplessly. He flung himself down on his bed rolling with laughter. Mike began to get alarmed. It's all right, said Wyatt at last, speaking with difficulty. But I say, how long have you been sitting there? It seemed hours, about an hour I suppose, really. It's the funniest thing I've ever struck. Me sweating to get in quietly and all the time him camping out on my bed. But look here, what will happen Wyatt sat up. That reminds me, suppose I'd better go down. What'll he do, do you think? Ah, now what? But I say, it's awful. What'll happen? That's for him to decide. Speaking at a venture, I should say you don't think. The boot. The swift and sudden boot. I shall be sorry to part with you, but I'm afraid it's a case of Aurevoir, my little hyacinth. Meet at Philippi. This is my Moscow. Tomorrow I shall go out into the night with one long choking sob. Years hence, a white-haired bank clerk will tap at your door when you are a prosperous professional cricketer with your photograph in Wisden. That'll be me. Well, I suppose I'd better go down. We'd better all get to bed sometime tonight. Don't go to sleep. Not likely. I'll tell you all the latest news when I come back. Where are my slippers? Ah, to swell. Lead on, then, minions, I follow. In the study, Mr. Wayne was fumbling restlessly with his papers when Wyatt appeared. Sit down, James, he said. Wyatt sat down. One of his slippers fell off with a clatter. Mr. Wayne jumped nervously. Only my slipper explained Wyatt it slipped. Mr. Wayne took up a pen and began to tap the table. Well, James, Wyatt said nothing. I should be glad to hear your explanation of this disgraceful matter. The fact is, said Wyatt, well, I haven't won, sir. What were you doing out of your dormitory, out of the house at that hour? I went for a walk, sir. And may I inquire, are you in the habit of violating the strictest school rules by absenting yourself from the house during the night? Yes, sir. What? Yes, sir. This is an exceedingly serious matter. Wyatt nodded agreement with this view. Exceedingly. The pen rose and fell with the rapidity of the cylinder of a motor car. Wyatt, watching it, became suddenly aware that the thing was hypnotizing him. In a minute or two he would be asleep. I wish you wouldn't do that, father. Tap like that, I mean. It's sending me to sleep. James, it's like a woodpecker. Studied impertinence. I'm very sorry, only it was sending me off. Mr. Wayne suspended tapping operations and resumed the thread of his discourse. I am sorry exceedingly to see this attitude in you, James. It is not fitting. It is in keeping with your behavior throughout. Your conduct has been lax and reckless in the extreme. It is possible that you imagine that the peculiar circumstances of our relationship secure you from the penalties to which the ordinary boy no, sir. I need hardly say continued Mr. Wayne ignoring the interruption that I shall treat you exactly as I should treat any other member of my house whom I had detected in the same misdemeanor. Of course, said Wyatt approvingly. I must ask you not to interrupt me when I am speaking to you, James. I say that your punishment will be no wit less severe than would be that of any other boy. You have repeatedly proved yourself lacking in ballast and respect for discipline in smaller ways. But this is a far more serious matter, exceedingly so. It is impossible for me to overlook it even where I disposed to do so. You are aware of the penalty for such an action as yours. The sack said Wyatt leconically. It is expulsion. You must leave the school at once. Wyatt nodded. As you know, I have already secured a nomination for you in the London and Oriental Bank. I shall write tomorrow to the manager asking him to receive you at once. After all, I will only gain an extra fortnight of me. You will leave directly. I receive his letter. I shall arrange with the headmaster that you are withdrawn privately. Not the sack? Withdrawn privately. You will not go to school tomorrow. Do you understand? That is all. Have you anything to say? Wyatt reflected. No, I don't think. His eye fell on a tray bearing a decanter and a siphon. He said, Can't I make you a whiskey and soda father before I go off to bed? Well, said Mike. Wyatt kicked off his slippers and began to undress. What happened? We chatted. Has he let you off? Like a gun, I shoot off almost immediately. Tomorrow I take a well-earned rest away from school and the day after I become the gay young bank clerk all amongst the ink and ledgers. Mike was miserably silent. Buck up, said Wyatt cheerfully. It would have happened anyhow in another fortnight, so why worry? Mike was still silent. The reflection was doubtless philosophic, but it failed to comfort him. Chapter 26 The Aftermath Bad news spreads quickly. By the quarter to eleven interval next day the facts concerning Wyatt and Mr. Wayne came to the public property. Mike, as an actual spectator of the drama, was in great request as an informant. As he told the story to a group of sympathizers outside the school shop Burgess came up, his eyes rolling in a fine frenzy. Anybody seen young? Oh, here you are. What's all this about Jimmy Wyatt? They're saying he's been sacked or some rot. So he has. What? When? He's left already. He isn't coming to school again. Burgess's first thought as befitted a good cricket captain was for his team. And the Ripton match on Saturday? Nobody seemed to have anything except silent sympathy at his command. Dash the man. Silly ass. What did he want to do it for? Poor old Jimmy, though, he added after a pause. What rot for him? Beastly. Agreed Mike. All the same continued Burgess with a return to the austere manner of the captain of cricket. He might have chucked playing the goat till after the Ripton match. Look here, young Jackson, you'll turn out for fielding with the first this afternoon. You'll play on Saturday. All right, said Mike without enthusiasm. The Wyatt disaster was too recent for him to feel much pleasure with his friend withdrawn. Bob was the next to interview him. They met in the Cloisters. Hello, Mike, said Bob. I say, what's all this about Wyatt? Wayne caught him getting back into the dorm last night after Neville Smith's, and he's taken him away from the school. What's he going to do going into that bank straight away? Yes. You know, that's the part he bars most. He'd have been leaving anyhow every night, you see, only it's awful rot for a chap like Wyatt to have to go and froust in a bank for the rest of his life. He'll find it rather a change, I expect. I suppose you won't be seeing him before he goes. I shouldn't think so, not unless he comes to the dorm during the night. He's sleeping over in Wayne's part of the house, but I shouldn't be surprised if he nipped out after Wayne has gone to bed. Hope he does anyway. I'd like to say goodbye, but I don't suppose it'll be possible. They separated in the direction of their respective form rooms. Mike felt bitter and disappointed at the way the news had been received. Wyatt was his best friend, his pal, and it offended him that the school should take the tidings of his departure as they had done. Most of them who had come to him for information had expressed a sort of sympathy with the absent hero of his story, but the chief sensation seemed to be one of pleasurable excitement at the fact that something big had happened to break the monotony of school routine. They treated the thing much as they would have treated the announcement that a record score had been made in first-class cricket. The school was not so much regretful as comfortably thrilled, and Burgess had actually cursed before sympathizing. Mike felt resentful towards Burgess. As a matter of fact, the chief captain wrote a letter to Wyatt during preparation that night which would have satisfied even Mike's sense of what was fit, but Mike had no opportunity of learning this. There was, however, one exception to the general rule, one member of the school who did not treat the episode as if it were merely an interesting and impersonal item of sensational news. Neville Smith heard of what had happened towards the end of the interval and rushed off instantly to the end of Mike. He was too late to catch him before he went to his form room, so he waited for him at half-past twelve when the bell rang for the end of morning school. I say, Jackson, is this true about old Wyatt? Mike nodded. What happened? Mike related the story for the sixteenth time. It was a melancholy pleasure to have found a listener who heard the tale in the right spirit. It was all my fault, he said at length. If it hadn't been for me, this wouldn't have happened. What a fool I was to ask him to my place. I might have known he would be caught. Oh, I don't know, said Mike. It was absolutely my fault. Mike was not equal to the task of soothing Neville Smith's wounded conscience. He did not attempt it. They walked on, without further conversation, till they reached Wayne's gate where Mike left him. Neville Smith proceeded on his way, plunged in meditation. The result of which meditation was that Burgess got a second shock before the day was out. Bob, going over to the nets, rather late in the afternoon, came upon the captain of Cricket, standing apart from his fellow men with an expression on his face that spoke of mental upheavals on a vast scale. What's up? asked Bob. Nothing much, said Burgess, with a forced and grisly calm, only that as far as I can see we shall play Ripton on Saturday with a sort of second eleven. You don't happen to have got sacked or anything by the way, do you? What's happened now? Neville Smith in extra on Saturday. That's all. Only our first and second changed bowlers out of the team for the Ripton match in one day. I suppose by tomorrow half the others will have gone and we shall take the field on Saturday with a scratched side of kids from the junior school. Neville Smith, why, what's he been doing? Apparently he gave a sort of supper to celebrate his getting his first and it was while coming back from that that Wyatt got collared. While on bloat, if Neville Smith doesn't toddle off to the old man after school today and tell him the whole yarn said it was all his fault. What rot! Sort of thing that might have happened to anyone. If Wyatt hadn't gone to him he'd probably have gone out somewhere else. And the old man shoved him in extra? Next two Saturdays. Are Ripton strong this year? Ask Bob for lack of anything better to say? Very from all accounts. They whacked the MCC jolly hot team of MCC too stronger than the one we drew with. Oh, well, you never know what's going to happen at Cricket. I may hold a catch for a change. Burgess grunted. Bob went on his way to the nets. Mike was just putting on his pads. Say, Mike, said Bob, I wanted to see you. It's about Wyatt. I've thought of something. What's that? A way of getting him out of that bank. If it comes off, that's to say. By Jove, he'd jump at anything. What's the idea? Why shouldn't he get a job of sorts out in the Argentine? There ought to be heaps of sound jobs going there for a chap like Wyatt. He's a jolly good shot to start with. I shouldn't wonder if it wasn't rather a score to be able to shoot out there. And he can ride, I know. By Jove, I'll write to Father tonight. He must be able to work it, I should think. He never chucked the show altogether, did he? Mike, as most other boys of his age would have been, was profoundly ignorant as to the details by which his father's money had been or was being made. He only knew vaguely that the source of revenue had something to do with the Argentine. His brother Joe had been born in Buenos Aires, and once, three years ago, his father had gone over there for a visit, presumably on business. All these things seemed to show that Mr. Jackson Sr. was a useful man to have about if he wanted a job in that El Dorado, the Argentine Republic. As a matter of fact, Mike's father owned vast tracts of land up country where countless sheep lived and had their being. He had long retired from active superintendents of his estate. Like Mr. Spenlo, he had a partner, a stout fellow with the work taint highly developed, nothing better than to be left in charge. So Mr. Jackson had returned to the home of his father's, glad to be there again. But he still had a decided voice in the ordering of affairs on the ranches and Mike was going to the fountain head of things when he wrote to his father that night, putting forward Wyatt's claims to attention and ability to perform any sort of job with which he might be presented. The reflection that he had done all that could be done was to hold him for the non-appearance of Wyatt either that night or next morning. A non-appearance which was due to the simple fact that he passed that night in a bed in Mr. Wayne's dressing room, the door of which that cautious pedagogue who believed in taking no chances locked from the outside on retiring to rest. End of section 9.