 CHAPTER 27 THE RIPPED-IN MATCH Mike got an answer from his father on the morning of the ripped-in match. A letter from Wyatt also lay on his plate when he came down to breakfast. Mr. Jackson's letter was short, but to the point. He said he would go and see Wyatt early in the next week. He added that being expelled from a public school was not the only qualification for success as a sheep farmer, but that if Mike's friend added to this a general intelligence and amyability and his skill for picking off cats with an air pistol and bull's eyes with a Lee-Enfield, there was no reason why something should not be done for him. In any case, he would buy him a lunch so that Wyatt would extract at least some profit from his visit. He said that he hoped something could be managed. It was a pity that a boy accustomed to shoot cats should be condemned for the rest of his life to shoot nothing more exciting than his cuffs. Wyatt's letter was longer. It might have been published under the title My First Day in a Bank by a Beginner. His advent had apparently caused little sensation. He had first had a brief conversation with the manager, which had run as follows. Mr. Wyatt? Yes, sir. Sportsman? Yes, sir. Cricketer? Yes, sir. Play football? Yes, sir. Rackets? Yes, sir. Everything? Yes, sir. Well, you won't get any more of it now. After which, Mr. Blankensopp had led him up to a vast ledger in which he was to inscribe the addresses of all outgoing letters. These letters he would then stamp and subsequently take in bundles to the post office. Once a week he would be required to buy stamps. If I were one of those Napoleons of finance, wrote Wyatt, I should cook the accounts, I suppose, and then bezel stamps to an incredible amount. But it doesn't seem in my line. I'm afraid I wasn't cut out for a business career. Still, I have stamped this letter at the expense of the office and entered it up under the heading Sundries, which is a sort of start. Look out for an article in the Rackinian, Hints for Young Criminals by J. Wyatt, Champion Catches Catch Can Stamps Dealer of the British Isles. So long, I suppose you are playing against Ripton now that the world of commerce has found that it can't get on without me. Mind you make a century and then perhaps Burgess will give you your first after all. There were twelve colors given three years ago because one chap left at half term and the man who played instead of him came off against Ripton. This had occurred to Mike independently. The Ripton match was a special event and the man who performed any outstanding feat against that school was treated as a sort of heraceous. Players were heaped upon him. If he could only make a century or even fifty, even twenty if it got the school out of a tight place, he was as nervous on the Saturday morning as he had been on the morning of the MCC match. It was victory or Westminster Abbey now. To do only averagely well, to be among the rock, would be as useless as not playing at all as far as his chance of his first was concerned. It was evident to those who woke early on the Saturday morning that this Ripton match was not likely to end in a draw. During the Friday rain had fallen almost incessantly in a steady drizzle. It had stopped late at night and at six in the morning there was every prospect of another hot day. There was that feeling in the air which shows that the sun is trying to get through the clouds. The sky was a dull gray at breakfast time except where a flush of deeper color give a hint of the sun. It was a day on which to win the toss and to go in first. At eleven thirty when the match was time to begin the wicket would be too wet to be difficult. Runs would come easily till the sun came out and began to dry the ground. When that happened there would be trouble for the side that was batting. Burgess inspecting the wicket with Mr. Spence during the quarter to eleven interval was not slow to recognize this fact. I should win the toss today if I were you Burgess said Mr. Spence. Just what I was thinking sir. That wicket is going to get nasty after lunch if the sun comes out. A regular roads wicket it is going to be. I wish we had roads said Burgess or even why it. It would just suit him this. Mr. Spence as a member of the staff was not going to be drawn into discussing Wyatt and his premature departure so he diverted the conversation on to the subject of the general aspect of the school's attack. Who will go on first with you Burgess. Who do you think sir. Ellerby it might be his wicket. Ellerby bold medium inclining just slow. On a pitch that suited him he was apt to turn from leg and get people out caught at the wicket or short slip. Certainly Ellerby. This end I think. The others yours though I'm afraid you'll have a poor time bowling fast today. Even with plenty of sawdust I doubt if it would be possible to get a decent foothold till after lunch. I must win the toss said Burgess. It's a nuisance too about our batting. Marsh will probably be dead out of form after being in the infirmary so long. If he'd had a chance of getting a bit of practice yesterday it might have been all right. That rain will have a lot to answer for if we lose. On a dry hard wicket uncertain we should beat them four times out of six. I was talking to a man who played against them for the nomads. He said that on a true wicket there was not a great deal of sting in their bowling. But that they've got a slow leg break man who might be dangerous on a day like this. A boy called Defrice. I don't know of him. He wasn't in the team last year. I know the chap. He played wing three for them at footer against us this year on their ground. He was crocked when they came here. He's a pretty useful chap all round I believe. Plays racquets for them too. Well my friend said he had one very dangerous ball of the sanguit type. Looks as if it were going away and comes in instead. I don't think a lot of that said Burgess roofily. One consolation is though that that sort of ball is easier to watch on a slow wicket. I must tell the fellows to look out for it. I should and above all win the toss. Burgess and McLean the ripped captain were old acquaintances. They had been at the same private school and they had played against one another at football and cricket for two years now. We'll go in first Mac said Burgess as they met on the pavilion steps after they had changed. It's awfully good of you to suggest it said McLean but I think we'll toss. It's a hobby of mine. You call. Heads. Tails it is. I ought to have warned you that you hadn't a chance. I've lost the toss five times running so I was bound to win today. You'll put us in I suppose. Yes after us. Oh well we shan't have long to wait for our knock. That's a comfort. Buck up and send someone in and let's get at you. And Burgess went off to tell the ground man to have plenty of sawdust ready as he would want the field paved with it. The policy of the ripped in team was obvious from the first over. They meant to force the game. Already the sun was beginning to peep through the haze for about an hour run getting ought to be a tolerably simple process. But after that hour singles would be as valuable as threes and boundaries and almost unheard of luxury. So ripped and went into it. The policy proved successful for a time as it generally does. Burgess who relied on a run that was a series of tiger like leaps culminating in a spring that suggested that he meant to lower the long jump record found himself badly handicapped by the state of the ground. In spite of frequent libations of sawdust he was compelled to tread cautiously and this robbed his bowling of much of its pace. The score mounted rapidly. 20 came in 10 minutes at 35 the first wicket fell run out. At 60, Elderby who had found the pitch too soft for him and had been expensive gave place to Grant. Grant bowled what was supposed to be slow leg breaks but which did not always break. The change worked. McClain after hitting the first two balls to the boundary skied the third to Bob Jackson in the deep and Bob for whom constant practice had robbed this sort of catch of its terrors held it. A Yorker from Burgess disposed of the next man before he could settle down but the score 74 for three wickets was large enough in view of the fact that the pitch was already becoming more difficult and was certain to get worse to make ripped and feel that the advantage was with them. Another hour of play remained before lunch. The deterioration of the wicket would be slow during that period. The sun which was now shining brightly would put in its deadliest work from two o'clock onwards. McClain's instructions to his men were to go on hitting. A too liberal interpretation of the meaning of the verb to hit led to the departure of two more riptonians in the course of the next two overs. There was a certain type of school batsman who considers that to force the game means to swipe blindly at every ball on the chance of taking it half volley. This policy sometimes leads to a boundary or two as it did on this occasion. But it means that wickets will fall as also happened now. 74 for three became 86 for five. Burgess began to look happier. His contentment increased when he got the next man leg before wicket with the total unaltered. At this rate ripton would be out before lunch for under a hundred. But the rot stopped with the fall of that wicket. Dashing tactics were laid aside. The pitch had begun to play tricks and the pair now in settled down to watch the ball. They plotted on scoring slowly and jerkily till the hands of the clock stood at half past one. Then Ellerby who had gone on again instead of Grant beat the less steady of the pair with a ball that pitched on the middle stump and shot into the base of the off. A hundred and twenty had gone up on the board at the beginning of the over. That period which is always so dangerous when the wicket is bad, the ten minutes before lunch, proved fatal to two more of the enemy. The last man had just gone to the wickets with the score at a hundred and thirty-one when a quarter to two arrived and with it the luncheon interval. So far it was anybody's game. CHAPTER XXVIII. Mike Wins Home. The ripped and last wicket man was Defriese, the slow bowler. He was apparently a young gentleman wholly free from the curse of nervousness. He wore a cheerful smile as he took guard before receiving the first ball after lunch, and Ricken had plenty of opportunity of seeing that this was his normal expression when at the wickets. There is often a certain looseness about the attack after lunch, and the bowler of Googlies took advantage of it now. He seemed to be a batsman with only one hit, but he had also a very accurate eye, and his one hit, the semicircular stroke which suggested the golf links rather than the cricket field, came off with the stressing frequency. He mowed Burgess' first ball to the square leg boundary, missed his second, and snicked the third for three over long slips head. The other batsman played out the over, and Defriese proceeded to treat Elibi's bowling with equal familiarity. The scoring board showed an increase of twenty as the result of three overs. Every run was invaluable now, and the ripped and contingent made the pavilion re-echo as a fluky shot over Midon's head sent up the hundred and fifty. There are a few things more exasperating to the fielding side than a last wicket stand. It resembles, in its effect, the dragging out of a book or play after the denouement has been reached. At the fall of the ninth wicket, the fieldman nearly always look on their outing as finished. Just a ball or two to the last man, and it will be their turn to bat. If the last man insists on keeping them out in the field, they resent it. What made it especially irritating now was the knowledge that a straight yorker would solve the whole thing. But when Burgess bowled a yorker, it was not straight, and when he bowled a straight ball, it was not a yorker. A four and a three to Defriese and a four by sent up a hundred and sixty. It was beginning to look as if this might go on forever when Elibi, who had been missing the stumps by fractions of an inch for the last ten minutes, did what Burgess had failed to do. He bowled a straight, medium paced yorker and Defriese, swiping at it with a bright smile, found his leg stump knocked back. He had made twenty-eight. His record score, he explained to Mike as they walked to the pavilion, for this or any ground. The ripped in total was a hundred and sixty-six. With the ground in its usual true hard condition, Rickon would have gone in against a score of a hundred and sixty-six with the cheery intention of knocking off the runs for the loss of two or three wickets. It would have been a gentle canter for them. But ordinary standards would not apply here. On a good wicket, Rickon that season were a two hundred and fifty to three hundred side. On a bad wicket, well, they had met the incogniti on a bad wicket, and their total with quiet playing and making top score had worked out at a hundred and seven. A grim determination to do their best rather than confidence that their best when done would be anything record-breaking was the spirit which animated the team when they opened their innings. And in five minutes this had changed to a dull gloom. The tragedy started with the very first ball. It hardly seemed that the innings had begun when Morris was seen to leave the crease and make for the pavilion. It's that googly man, said Burgess blankly. What's happened? shouted a voice from the interior of the first eleven room. Morris is out. Good gracious Howe asked L. R. B. emerging from the room with one pad on his leg and the other in his hand. L. B. W. first ball. My aunt, who's in next, not me. No, barrage. For goodness sake, Barry, stick a bat in the way and not your legs. Watch that defreece man like a hawk. He breaks like sin all over the shop. Hello, Morris. Bad luck. Were you out, do you think? A batsman who has been given L. B. W. has always asked this question on his return to the pavilion and he answers it nine cases out of ten in the negative. Morris was the tenth case. He thought it was all right, he said. Thought the thing was going to break, but it didn't. Hear that, Barry? He doesn't always break. You must look out for that, said Burgess helpfully. Morris sat down and began to take off his pads. That chap will have Barry if he doesn't look out, he said. But Barrage survived the ordeal. He turned his first ball to leg for a single. This brought Marsh to the batting end and the second tragedy occurred. It was evident from the way he shaped that Marsh was short of practice. His visit to the infirmary had taken the edge off his batting. He scratched awkwardly at three balls without hitting them. The last of the over had him in two mines. He started to play forward, changed his stroke suddenly and tried to step back and the next moment the bales had shot up like the debris of a small explosion and the wicketkeeper was clapping his gloved hands gently and slowly in the introspective dreamy way wicketkeepers have on these occasions. A silence that could be felt brooded over the pavilion. The voice of the scorer addressing from his little wooden hut the melancholy youth who was working the telegraph board broke it. One for two, last man duck. Elrbi echoed the remark. He got up and took off his blazer. This is all right, he said. Isn't it? I wonder if the man at the other end is the sort of young Rhodes too. Fortunately he was not. The star of the ripped-in attack was evidently de-freeze. The bowler at the other end looked fairly plain. He sent them down medium pace and on a good wicket would probably have been simple but today there was danger in the most guile-less looking deliveries. Barrage relieved the tension a little by playing safely through the over and scoring a couple of twos off it and when Elrbi not only survived the destructive de-freezes second over but actually lifted a loose ball onto the roof of the scoring hut the cloud began perceptibly to lift. A no-ball in the same over sent up the first 10. 10 for two was not good but it was considerably better than one for two. With the score at 30, Elrbi was missed in the slips off de-freeze. He had been playing with slowly increasing confidence till then but this seemed to throw him out of his stride. He played inside the next ball and was all but bold and then jumping out to drive he was smartly stumped. The cloud began to settle again. Bob was the next man in. Elrbi took off his pads and dropped into the chair next to Mike's. Mike was silent and thoughtful. He was in after Bob and to be on the eve of batting does not make one conversational. You in next? asked Elrbi. Mike nodded. It's getting trickier every minute said Elrbi. The only thing is if we can only stay in we might have a chance. The wicket will get better and I don't believe they've any bowling at all by de-freeze. By George Bob's out. No he isn't. Bob had jumped out at one of de-freeze's slows as Elrbi had done and had nearly met the same fate. The wicketkeeper however had fumbled the ball. That's the way I was had said Elrbi. That man's keeping such a jolly good length that you don't know whether to stay in your ground or go out at them. If only somebody would knock him off his length I believe we might win yet. The same idea apparently occurred to Burgess. He came to where Mike was sitting. I'm going to shove you down one Jackson. He said I should go in next myself and swipe and try and knock that man de-freeze off. All right said Mike. He was not quite sure whether he was glad or sorry at the respite. It's a pity old why it isn't here said Elrbi. This is just the sort of time when he might have come off. Bob's broken his eggs said Mike. Good man. Every little helps. Oh you silly ass get back. Barrage had called Bob for a short run that was obviously no run. Third man was returning the ball as the batsman crossed. The next moment the wicketkeeper had the bales off. Barrage was out by a yard. 41 for four said Elrbi. Help. Burgess began his campaign against de-freeze by skying his first ball over cover's head to the boundary. A howl of delight went up from the school which was repeated for Chissimo when more by accident than by accurate timing the captain put on two more fours past extra cover. The bowler's cheerful smile never varied. Whether Burgess would have knocked de-freeze off his length or not was a question that was destined to remain unsolved. For in the middle of the other bowlers over Bob hit a single. The batsman crossed and Burgess had his leg stump uprooted while trying a gigantic pull stroke. The melancholy youth put up the figures 54 5 12 on the board. Mike as he walked out of the pavilion to join Bob was not conscious of any particular nervousness. It had been an ordeal having to wait and look on while wickets fell but now that the time of inaction was at an end he felt curiously composed. When he had gone out to bat against the MCC on the occasion of his first appearance for the school he experienced a quaint sensation of unreality. He seemed to be watching his body walking to the wickets as if it were someone else's. There was no sense of individuality but now his feelings were different. He was cool. He noticed small things mid-off chewing bits of grass. The bowler retying the scarf round his waist. Little patches of brown where the turf had been worn away. He took guard with a clear picture of the positions of the field's been photographed on his brain. Fitness which in abatement exhibits itself mainly in an increased power of seeing the ball is one of the most inexplicable things connected with cricket. It has nothing or very little to do with actual health. A man may come out of his sick room with just that extra quickness inciting the ball that makes all the difference or he may be in perfect training and play inside straight half ballies. Mike would not have said that he felt more than ordinarily well that day. Indeed, he was rather painfully conscious of having bolted his food at lunch. But something seemed to whisper to him as he settled himself to face the bowler that he was at the top of his batting form. A difficult wicket always brought out his latent powers as a bat. It was a standing mystery with a sporting press how Joe Jackson managed to collect fifties and sixties on wickets that completely upset men who were apparently finer players. On days when the Olympians of the cricket world were bringing their averages down with ducks and singles, Joe would be in his element watching the ball and pushing it through the slips as if there were no such thing as a tricky wicket. And Mike took after Joe. A single off the fifth ball of the over opened his score and brought him to the opposite end. Bob played ball number six back to the bowler and Mike took guard preparatory to facing defrice. The ripped and slow bowler took a long run considering his pace. In the early part of an innings he often trapped the batsmen in this way by leading them to expect a faster ball than he actually sent down. A queer little jump in the middle of the run increased the difficulty of watching him. The smiting he had received from Burgess in the previous over had not had the effect of knocking defrice off his length. The ball was too short to reach with comfort and not short enough to take liberties with. It pitched slightly to leg and whipped in quickly. Mike had faced half left and stepped back. The increased speed of the ball after it had touched the ground beat him. The ball hit his right pad. Stath shouted mid on. Mid on has a habit of appealing for LBW and school matches. Defrice said nothing. The ripped and bowler was as conscientious in the matter of appeals as a good bowler should be. He had seen that the ball had pitched off the leg stump. The umpire shook his head. Mid on tried to look as if he had not spoken. Mike prepared himself for the next ball with a glow of confidence. He felt that he knew where he was now. Till then he had not thought the wicket was so fast. The two balls he had played at the other end had told him nothing. They had been well pitched up and he had smothered them. He knew what to do now. He had played on wickets of this pace at home against Saunders' bowling and Saunders had shown him the right way to cope with them. The next ball was of the same length, but this time off the off stump. Mike jumped out and hit it before it had time to break. It flew along the ground through the gap between cover and extra cover, a comfortable three. Bob played out the over with elaborate care. Off the second ball of the other man's over, Mike scored his first boundary. It was a long hop on the off. He banged it behind point to the terrace bank. The last ball of the over, a half volley to leg, he lifted over the other boundary. Sixty up, said Ellaby in the pavilion, as the umpire signaled another no-ball. By George I believe these chaps are going to knock off the runs. Young Jackson looks as if he was in for a century. You ass, said Barrage, don't say that or he's certain to get out. Barrage was one of those who are skilled in cricket superstitions. But Mike did not get out. He took seven off Defriese's next over by means of two cuts in a drive, and with Bob still exhibiting a stolid and rock-like defense, the score mounted to eighty, fence to ninety, and so mainly by singles to a hundred. At a hundred and four, when the wicket had put on exactly fifty, Bob fell to a combination of Defriese and extra cover. He had stuck like a limpet for an hour and a quarter and made twenty-one. Mike watched him go with much the same feelings as those of a man who turns away from the platform after seeing a friend off on a long railway journey. His departure upset the scheme of things. For himself he had no fear now. He might possibly get out off his next ball, but he felt set enough to stay at the wickets till nightfall. He had had narrow escapes from Defriese, but he was full of that conviction, which comes to all batsmen on occasion, that this was his day. He had made twenty-six and the wicket was getting easier. He could feel the sting going out of the bowling every over. Hanfrey, the next man in, was a promising rather than an effective bat. He had an excellent style, but he was uncertain. Two years later, when he captained the Ricken teams, he made a lot of runs. But this season his batting had been spasmodic. Today he never looked like settling down. He survived an over from Defriese and hit a fast change-bowler who had been put on at the other end for a couple of fluky fours. Then Mike got the bowling for three consecutive overs and raised the score to one hundred and twenty-six. A buy brought Hanfrey to the batting end again, and Defriese's pet googly, which had not been much in evidence hitherto, led to his snicking an easy catch into short-slip's hands. One hundred and twenty-seven for seven against the total of one hundred and sixty-six gives the impression that the batting side has the advantage. In the present case, however, it was Ripton who were really in the better position. Apparently, Ricken had three more wickets to fall. Practically, they had only one, for neither Ashe nor Grant nor Devonish had any pretensions to be considered batsmen. Ashe was the school wicketkeeper. Grant and Devonish were bowlers. Between them the three could not be relied on for a dozen in a decent match. Mike watched Ashe shape with a sinking heart. The wicketkeeper looked like a man who feels that his hour has come. Mike could see him licking his lips. There was nervousness written all over him. He was not kept long in suspense. Defriese's first ball made a hideous wreck of his wicket. Over, said the umpire. Mike felt that the school's one chance now lay in his keeping the bowling, but how was he to do this? It suddenly occurred to him that it was a delicate position that he was in. It was not often that he was troubled by an inconvenient modesty, but this happened now. Grant was a fellow he hardly knew, and a school prefect to boot. Could he go up to him and explain that he, Jackson, did not consider him competent to bat in this crisis? Would not this get about and be accounted to him for side? He had made forty, but even so, fortunately, Grant solved the problem on his own account. He came up to Mike and spoke with an earnestness born of nerves. For goodness sake, he whispered, collar the bowling all you know or we're done. I shall get out at first ball. All right, said Mike and set his teeth. Forty to win. A large order, but it was going to be done. His whole existence seemed to concentrate itself on those forty runs. The fast bowler, who was the last of several changes that had been tried at the other end, was well-meaning but erratic. The wicket was almost true again now, and it was possible to take liberties. Mike took them. A distant clapping from the pavilion, taken up a moment later, all round the ground and echoed by the ripped in fieldsmen, announced that he had reached his fifty. The last ball of the over he mis-hit. It rolled in the direction of third man. Come on, shouted Grant. Mike and the ball arrived at the opposite wicket almost simultaneously, another fraction of a second than he would have been run out. The last balls of the next two overs provided repetitions of this performance. But each time luck was with him, and his bat was across the crease before the bales were off. The telegraph board showed a hundred and fifty. The next over was doubly sensational. The original medium-paced bowler had gone on again in place of the fast man, and for the first five balls he could not find his length. During those five balls, Mike raised the score to a hundred and sixty. But the sixth was of a different kind. Faster than the rest and of a perfect length, it all but got through Mike's defense. As it was, he stopped it, but he did not score. The umpire called over and there was Grant at the batting end, with the freest smiling pleasantly as he walked back to begin his run with a comfortable reflection that at last he had got somebody except Mike to bowl at. That over was an experience Mike never forgot. Grant pursued the Fabian policy of keeping his bat almost immovable and trusting to luck. Point and the slips crowded round. Mid-off and mid-on moved halfway down the pitch. Grant looked embarrassed but determined. For four balls he baffled the attack, though once nearly caught by point a yard from the wicket. The fifth curled round his bat and touched the off stump. A bale fell silently to the ground. Devonish came in to take the last ball of the over. It was an awe-inspiring moment. A great stillness was over all the ground. Mike's knees trembled. Devonish's face was a delicate gray. The only person unmoved seemed to be defrice. His smile was even more amiable than usual as he began his run. The next moment the crisis was past. The ball hit the very center of Devonish's bat and rolled back down the pitch. The school broke into one great howl of joy. There were still seven runs between them and victory, but nobody appeared to recognize this fact as important. Mike had got the bowling and the bowling was not defrices. It seemed almost an anti-climax when a four to leg and two twos through the slips settled the thing. Devonish was caught and bowled in defrice's next over, but the rick in total was one hundred and seventy-two. Good game, said McLean, meeting Burgess in the pavilion. Who was the man who made all the runs? How many, by the way? Eighty-three. It was young Jackson, brother of the other one. That family. How many more of them are you going to have here? He's the last. I say rough luck on defrice. He bowled rippingly. Politeness to a beaten foe caused Burgess to change as usual, not bad. The funny part of it is, continued he, that young Jackson was only playing as a sub. You've got a rum idea of what's funny, said McLean. End of section. Chapters twenty-nine through thirty-one 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 twenty-nine. Wyatt again. It was a morning in the middle of September. The Jackson's were breakfasting. Mr. Jackson was reading letters. The rest, including Gladys Maud, whose finally chiseled features were gradually disappearing behind a mask of bread and milk, had settled down to serious work. The usual catch-as-catch-can contest between Marjorie and Phyllis for the jam, referee and timekeeper, Mrs. Jackson, had resulted after both combatants had been cautioned by the referee in a victory for Marjorie, who had duly secured the stakes. The hour being nine-fifteen and the official time for breakfast nine o'clock, Mike's place was still empty. I've had a letter from McPherson, said Mr. Jackson. McPherson was the vigorous and persevering gentleman referred to in a previous chapter, who kept a fatherly eye on the Buenos Aires sheep. He seems very satisfied with Mike's friend Wyatt. At the moment of writing, Wyatt is apparently incapacitated, owing to a bullet in the shoulder, but expects to be fit again shortly. That young man seems to make things fairly lively wherever he is. I don't wonder he found a public school too restricted a sphere for his energies. Has he been fighting a duel? asked Marjorie, interested. Bush rangers, said Phyllis. There aren't any Bush rangers in Buenos Aires, said Ella. How do you know? said Phyllis, clenchingly. Bush ray, Bush ray, Bush ray, began Gladys Maud conversationally through the bread and milk, but was headed off. He gives no details. Perhaps that letter on Mike's plate supplies them. I see it comes from Buenos Aires. I wish Mike would come and open it, said Marjorie. Shall I go and hurry him up? The missing member of the family entered as she spoke. Buck up, Mike, she shouted. There's a letter from Wyatt. He's been wounded in a duel with a Bush ranger, added Phyllis. Bush ray, explained Gladys Maud. Is there? said Mike. Sorry I'm late. He opened the letter and began to read. What does he say? inquired Marjorie. Who was the duel with? How many Bush rangers were there? asked Phyllis. Mike read on. Good old Wyatt? He shot a man. Killed him? asked Marjorie excitedly. No, only potted him in the leg. This is what he says. First page is mostly about the ripped and match and so on. Here you are. I'm dictating this to a sportsman of the name of Danvers, a good chap who can't help being ugly. So excuse bad writing. The fact is we've been having a bust up here and I've come out of it with a bullet in the shoulder which has crocked me for the time being. It happened like this. An ass of a goucho had gone into the town and got jolly tight and coming back he wanted to ride through our place. The old woman who keeps the lodge wouldn't have it at any price. Gave him the absolute missing ball. So this rodder, instead of shifting off, proceeded to cut the fence and go through that way. All the farms out here have their boundaries marked by wire fences and it is supposed to be a deadly sin to cut these. Well, the lodgekeeper's son dashed off in search of help. A chap called Chester, an old wickamist and I, were dipping sheep close by. So he came to us and told us what had happened. We nipped on to a couple of horses, pulled out our revolvers and tooled after him. After a bit we overtook him and that's when the trouble began. The Johnny had dismounted when we arrived. I thought he was simply tightening his horse's girth. What he was really doing was getting a steady aim at us with his revolver. He fired as we came up and dropped poor old Chester. I thought he was killed at first, but it turned out it was only his leg. I got going then. I emptied all the six chambers of my revolver and missed him clean every time. In the meantime, he got me in the right shoulder. Hurt like sin afterwards, though it was only a sort of dull shock at the moment. The next item of the program was a forward move in force on the part of the enemy. The man had got his knife out now. While he didn't shoot again, I don't know, and toddled over in our direction to finish us off. Chester was unconscious and it was any money on the gaucho when I happened to catch sight of Chester's pistol, which had fallen just by where I came down. I picked it up and loosed off, missed the first shot, but got him with the second in the ankle at about two yards, and his day's work was done. That's the painful story. Danvers says he's getting writer's cramps, so I shall have to stop. By Jove, said Mike. What a dreadful thing, said Mrs. Jackson. Anyhow, it was practically a bush ranger, said Phyllis. I told you it was a duel, and so it was, said Marjorie. What a terrible experience for the poor boy, said Mrs. Jackson. Much better than being in a beastly bank, said Mike, summing up. I'm glad he's having such a ripping time. It must be almost as decent as Ricken out there. I say, what's under that dish? Chapter thirty. Mr. Jackson makes up his mind. Two years have elapsed, and Mike is home again for the Easter holidays. If Mike had been in time for breakfast that morning, he might have gathered from the expression on his father's face, as Mr. Jackson opened the envelope, containing his school report and read the contents, that the document in question was not exactly a peon of praise from beginning to end. But he was late, as usual. Mike always was late for breakfast in the holidays. When he came down on this particular morning, the meal was nearly over. Mr. Jackson had disappeared, taking his correspondence with him. Mrs. Jackson had gone into the kitchen, and when Mike appeared, the thing had resolved itself into a mere vulgar brawl between Phyllis and Ella for the jam, while Marjorie, who had put her hair up a fortnight before, looked on in a detached sort of way, as if these juvenile gambles distressed her. Hello, Mike, she said, jumping up as he entered. Here you are. I've been keeping everything hot for you. Have you? Thanks awfully. I say. His eye wandered in mild surprise round the table. I'm a bit late. Marjorie was bustling about, fetching and carrying for Mike, as she always did. She had adopted him at an early age, and did the thing thoroughly. She was fond of her other brothers, especially when they made centuries in first-class cricket, but Mike was her favorite. She would field out in the deep as a natural thing when Mike was batting at the net in the paddock, though for the others, even for Joe, who had played in all five test matches in the previous summer, she would do it only as a favor. Phyllis and Ella finished their dispute and went out. Marjorie sat on the table and watched Mike eat. Your report came this morning, Mike, she said. The kidneys failed to retain Mike's undivided attention. He looked up interested. What did it say? I didn't see. I only caught sight of the rick and crest on the envelope. Father didn't say anything. Mike seemed concerned. I say that looks rather rotten. I wonder if it was awfully bad. It's the first I've had from Applebee. It can't be any worse than the horrid ones Mr. Blake used to write when you were in his form. No, that's a comfort, said Mike philosophically. Think there's any more tea in that pot? I call it a shame, said Marjorie. They ought to be jolly glad to have you at Wrecking just for cricket instead of writing beastly reports that make father angry and don't do any good to anybody. Last summer he said he'd take me away if I got another one. He didn't mean it really. I know he didn't. He couldn't. You're the best bat rickens ever had. What ho? Interpolated Mike. You are. Everybody says you are. Why you got your first the very first term you were there. Even Joe didn't do anything nearly so good as that. Saunders says you're simply bound to play for England in another year or two. Saunders is a jolly good chap. He bowled me a half volley on the off the first ball I had in a school match. By the way, I wonder if he's out at the net now. Let's go and see. Saunders was setting up the net when they arrived. Mike put on his pads and went to the wickets while Marjorie and the dogs retired as usual to the far hedge to retrieve. She was kept busy. Saunders was a good sound bowler of the MCC minor match type and there had been a time when he had worried Mike considerably. But Mike had been in the rickens team for three seasons now and each season he had advanced tremendously in his batting. He had filled out in three years. He had always had the style and now he had the strength as well. Saunders' bowling on a true wicket seemed simple to him. It was early in the Easter holidays but already he was beginning to find his form. Saunders, who looked on Mike as his own special invention, was delighted. If you don't be worried by being too anxious now that you're Captain Master Mike, he said, you'll make a century every match next term. I wish I wasn't. It's a beastly responsibility. Henfrey, the rick and cricket captain of the previous season, was not returning next term and Mike was to reign in his stead. He liked the prospect but it certainly carried with it a rather awe-inspiring responsibility. At night sometimes he would lie awake appalled by the fear of losing his form or making a hash of things by choosing the wrong men to play for the school and leaving the right men out. It is no light thing to captain a public school at cricket. As he was walking towards the house Phyllis met him. Oh, I've been hunting for you, Mike. Father wants you. What for? I don't know. Where? He's in the study. He seems, added Phyllis, throwing in the information by way of a make-wait in a beastly wax. Mike's jaw fell slightly. I hope to dickens it's nothing to do with that ballet report, was his muttered exclamation. Mike's dealings with his father were, as a rule, of a most pleasant nature. Mr. Jackson was an understanding sort of man who traded his sons as companions. From time to time, however, breezes were apt to ruffle the placid sea of good fellowship. Mike's end of term report was an unfailing wind-raiser. Indeed, on the arrival of Mr. Blake's sarcastic resume of Mike's shortcomings at the end of the previous term, there had been something not unlike a typhoon. It was on this occasion that Mr. Jackson had solemnly declared his intention of removing Mike from Ricken unless the critics became more flattering, and Mr. Jackson was a man of his word. It was with a certain amount of apprehension, therefore, that Jackson entered the study. Come in, Mike, said his father, kicking the waste-paper basket. I want to speak to you. Mike, skilled in omens, sent in a row in the offing. Only in moments of emotion was Mr. Jackson in the habit of booting the basket. There followed an awkward silence, which Mike broke by remarking that he had carted a half volley from Saunders over the onside hedge that morning. It was just a bit short and off the leg stump, so I stepped out. May I beg the paper knife for a jiffy? I'll just show. Never mind about cricket now, said Mr. Jackson. I want you to listen to this report. Oh, is that my report, Father? Said Mike, with a sort of sickly interest, much as a dog about to be washed, mighty Vincent, his tub. It is, replied Mr. Jackson, in measured tones, your report. What is more, it is, without exception, the worst report you have ever had. Oh, I say, grown thou record breaker. His conduct, quoted Mr. Jackson, has been unsatisfactory in the extreme, both in and out of school. It wasn't anything really. I only happened remembering suddenly that what he had happened to do was to drop a cannonball, the school weight, on the form room floor, not once, but on several occasions. He paused. French bad conduct disgraceful. Everybody rags in French. Mathematics bad, inattentive, and idle. Nobody does much work in math. Latin poor, Greek very poor. We were doing Thucydides, book two last term, all speeches and doubtful readings and cruxes and things, beastly hard. Everybody says so. Here are Mr. Applebee's remarks. The boy has genuine ability, which he declines to use in the smallest degree. Mike moaned a moan of righteous indignation. An abnormal proficiency at games has apparently destroyed all desire in him to realize the more serious issues of life. There is more to the same effect. Mr. Applebee was a master with very definite ideas as to what constituted a public school master's duties. As a man he was distinctly pro-Mike. He understood cricket, and some of Mike's shots on the off gave him thrills of pure aesthetic joy. But as a master he always made it his habit to regard the manners and customs of the boys in his form with an unbiased eye. And to an unbiased eye Mike in a forum room was about as near the extreme edge as a boy could be, and Mr. Applebee said as much in a clear, firm hand. You remember what I said to you about your report at Christmas, Mike? Said Mr. Jackson, folding the lethal document and replacing it in its envelope. Mike said nothing. There was a sinking feeling in his interior. I shall abide by what I said. Mike's heart thumped. You will not go back to rickin' next term. Somewhere in the world the sun was shining, birds were twittering. Somewhere in the world lambkins frisked and peasants sang blithely at their toil. Flat perhaps, but still blithely. But to Mike, at that moment the sky was black and an icy wind blew over the face of the earth. The tragedy had happened, and there was an end of it. He made no attempt to appeal against the sentence. He knew it would be useless. His father, when he made up his mind, having all the unbending tenacity of the normally easygoing man. Mr. Jackson was sorry for Mike. He understood him, and for that reason he said very little now. I am sending you to Sedley, was his next remark. Sedley. Mike sat up with a jerk. He knew Sedley by name, one of those schools with about a hundred fellows which you never hear of, except when they send up their gymnasium paired to Aldershot, or their eight to Bisley. Mike's outlook on life was that of a cricketer, pure and simple. What had Sedley ever done? What were they ever likely to do? Whom did they play? What old Sedley and had ever done anything at Cricket? Perhaps they didn't even play Cricket. But it's an awful hole, he said blankly. Mr. Jackson could read Mike's mind like a book. Mike's point of view was plain to him. He did not approve of it, but he knew that in Mike's place and at Mike's age he would have felt the same. He spoke dryly to hide his sympathy. It is not a large school, he said, and I don't suppose it could play rickin' at Cricket, but it has one merit. Boys work there. Young Barlett won a Balliol scholarship from Sedley last year. Barlett was the vicar's son, a silent, spectacle youth who did not enter very largely into Mike's world. They had medicationally at tennis parties, but not much conversation had ensued. Barlett's mind was massive, but his topics of conversation were not Mike's. Mr. Barlett speaks very highly of Sedley, added Mr. Jackson. Mike said nothing, which was a good deal better than saying what he would have liked to have said. Chapter 31 Sedley The train, which had been stopping everywhere for the last half hour, pulled up again, and Mike, seeing the name of the station, got up, opened the door, and hurled a Gladstone bag out onto the platform in an emphatic and vindictive manner. Then he got out himself and looked about him. For the school, sir, inquired the solitary porter, bustling up, as if he hoped by sheer energy to deceive the traveler into thinking that Sedley's station was staffed by a great army of porters. Mike nodded, a somber nod. The nod Napoleon might have given if somebody had met him in 1812 and said, So you're back from Moscow, eh? Mike was feeling thoroughly jaundiced. The future seemed wholly gloomy, and so far from attempting to make the best of things, he had set himself deliberately to look on the dark side. He thought, for instance, that he had never seen a more repulsive porter or one more obviously incompetent than the man who had attached himself with a firm grasp to the handle of the bag as he strode off in the direction of the luggage fan. He disliked his voice, his appearance, and the color of his hair, also the boots he wore. He hated the station and the man who took his ticket. Young gents at the school, sir, said the porter, perceiving from Mike's distraite air that the boy was a stranger to the place, goes up in the bus mostly. It's waiting here, sir. Hi, George. I'll walk, thanks, said Mike frigidly. It's a goodish step, sir. Here you are. Thank you, sir. I'll send up your luggage by the bus, sir. Which house was it you was going to? Outwards. Right, sir. It's straight on up this road to the school. You can't miss it, sir. Worst luck, said Mike. He walked off up the road, sorry for himself then ever. It was such absolutely rotten luck. About now, instead of being on his way to a place where they probably ran a diabolode team instead of a cricket eleven and played Hunt the Slipper in winter, he would be on the point of arriving at Rickin. And as captain of cricket at that, which was the bitter part of it, he had never been in command. For the last two seasons he had been the star man, going in first and heading the averages easily at the end of the season. And the three captains under whom he had played during his career as a Rikinian, Burgess, Enderby, and Hanfrey had always been sportsmen to him. But it was not the same thing. He had meant to do such a lot for Rickin Crick at this term. He had had an entirely new system of coaching in his mind. Now it might never be used. He had handed it on in a letter of distraction who would be captain in his place, but probably distraction would have some scheme of his own. There is nobody who could not edit a paper in the ideal way, and there is nobody who has not a theory of his own about cricket coaching at school. Rickin, too, would be weak this year, now that he was no longer there. Strashen was a good free bet on his day, and if he survived a few overs might make a century in an hour, but he was not to be depended upon. There was no doubt that Mike's sudden withdrawal meant that Rickin would have a bad time that season, and it had been such a wretched athletic year for the school. The football fifteen had been hopeless and had lost both the Ripton matches, the return by over sixty points. Sheen's victory in the lightweights at Aldershot had been their one success, and now on top of all this the captain of cricket was removed during the Easter holidays. Mike's heart bled for Rickin, and he found himself loathing, sadly, and all its works with a great loathing. The only thing he could find in its favor was the fact that it was set in a very pretty country, of a different type from the Rickin country, but almost as good. For three miles, Mike made his way through woods and past fields. Once he crossed a river, it was soon after this that he caught sight from the top of a hill of buildings that wore an unmistakably school-like look. This must be sadly. Ten minutes' walk brought him to the school gates, and a baker's boy directed him to Mr. Outwoods. There were three houses in a row, separated from the school buildings by a cricket field. Outwoods was the middle one of these. Mike went to the front door and knocked. At Rickin he had always charged in at the beginning of term at the boy's entrance, but this formal reporting of himself at Sedley suited his mood. He inquired for Mr. Outwood and was shown into a room lined with books. Presently the door opened and the housemaster appeared. There was something pleasant and homely about Mr. Outwood. In appearance he reminded Mike of Smee and Peter Pan. He had the same eyebrows and posse ne, and the same motherly look. Jackson, he said mildly. Yes, sir. I am very glad to see you, very glad indeed. Perhaps you would like a cup of tea after your journey. I think you might like a cup of tea. You come from Crofton and Shropshire, I understand, Jackson, near Brindleford. It is a part of the country which I have always wished to visit. I daresay you have frequently seen the Cluniac Priority of St. Ambrose at Brindleford. Mike, who would not have recognized the Cluniac Priority if you had handed him one on her tray, said he had not. Dear me, you have missed an opportunity which I should have been glad to have. I am preparing a book on ruined abbeys and priorities of England, and it has always been my wish to see the Cluniac Priority of St. Ambrose, a deeply interesting relic of the 16th century. Bishop Geoffrey, 1133-40. Shall I go across to the boy's part, sir? What? Yes. Oh yes, quite so. And perhaps you would like a cup of tea after your journey? No? Quite so, quite so. You should make a point of visiting the remains of the Cluniac Priority in the summer holidays, Jackson. You will find the matron in her room. In many respects it is unique. The northern altar is in a state of really wonderful preservation. It consists of a solid block of masonry five feet long and two and a half wide with chamfered plinths standing quite free from the apse wall. It will well repay a visit. Goodbye for the present, Jackson. Goodbye. Mike wandered across to the other side of the house, his gloom visibly deepened, all alone in a strange school where they probably played hopscotch with a housemaster who offered one cup of tea after one's journey and talked about chamfered plinths and apses. It was a little hard. He strayed about finding his bearings and finally came to a room which he took to be the equivalent of the senior day room at a ricken house. Everywhere else he had found nothing but emptiness. Evidently he had come by an earlier train than was usual, but this room was occupied. A very long, thin youth with a solemn face and immaculate clothes was leaning against the mantelpiece. As Mike entered he fumbled in his top-left waistcoat pocket, produced an eyeglass attached to a cord and fixed it in his right eye. With the help of this aid to vision he inspected Mike in silence for a while, then having flicked an invisible speck of dust from the left sleeve of his coat he spoke. Hello, he said. He spoke in a tired voice. Hello, said Mike. Take a seat, said the immaculate one, if you don't mind dirtying your bags, that is to say. Personally I don't see any prospect of ever sitting down in this place. It looks to me as if they meant to use these chairs as mustard and crest beds, a nursery garden in the home, that sort of idea. My name, he added pensively, is Smith. What's yours? End of section 11. Chapters 32 through 34 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 32. Smith. Jackson, said Mike. Are you the bully, the pride of the school, or the boy who has led astray and takes to drink in Chapter 16? The last for choice, said Mike, but I've only just arrived, so I don't know. The boy, what will he become? Are you new here, too, then? Yes, why are you new? Do I look as if I belong here? I'm the latest import. Sit down on Yonder Setti and I will tell you the painful story of my life. By the way, before I start, there's just one thing. If you ever have occasion to write to me, would you mind sticking a P at the beginning of my name? P-S-M-I-T-H, see? There are too many Smiths and I don't care for smithe. My father's content to worry along in the old fashioned way, but I've decided to strike out a fresh line. I shall found a new dynasty. The resolve came to me unexpectedly this morning as I was buying a simple peneth of butterscotch out of the automatic machine at Paddington. I jotted it down on the back of an envelope. In conversation, you may address me as Rupert, though I hope you won't, or simply Smith, the P not being sounded. See P the name Bisco, in which the Z is given a similar miss in bulk, see? Mike said he saw. Smith thanked him with a certain stately old world courtesy. Let us start at the beginning, he resumed. My infancy. When I was but a babe, my eldest sister was bribed with a shilling an hour by my nurse to keep an eye on me and see that I did not raise Cain. At the end of the first day she struck for one and six and got it. We now pass to my boyhood. At an early age I was sent to Eaton. Everybody predicting a bright career for me. But, said Smith solemnly, fixing an owl-like gaze on Mike through the eyeglass, it was not to be. No, said Mike. No, I was superannuated last term. Bad luck! For Eaton, yes, but what Eaton loses, sadly gains. But why, sadly, of all places? This is the most painful part of my narrative. It seems that a certain scug in the next village to ours happened last year to collar a bolly-oil. Now, Barlett, exclaimed Mike. That was the man, the son of the vicar. The vicar told the curate who told our curate who told our vicar who told my father who sent me off here to get a bolly-oil, too. Do you know, Barlett? His patterns, vicar of our village, it was because his son got a bolly-oil that I was sent here. Do you come from Crofton? Yes. I've lived at Lower Benford all my life. We are practically long-lost brothers. Cheer a little, will you? Mike felt as Robinson Crusoe felt when he met Friday. There was a fellow human being in this desert place. He could almost have embraced Smith. The very sound of the name Lower Benford was heartening. His dislike for his new school was not diminished, but now he felt that life there might at least be tolerable. Where were you before you came here? asked Smith. You have heard my painful story. Now tell me yours. Ricken. My pattern took me away because I got such a lot of bad reports. My reports from Eaton were simply scurrilous. There's a libel action in every sentence. How do you like this place from what you've seen of it? Rotten. I am with you, comrade Jackson. You won't mind my calling you comrade, will you? I've just become a socialist. It's a great scheme. You ought to be one. You work for the equal distribution of property and start by collaring all you can and sitting on it. We must stick together. We are companions in misfortune, lost lambs, sheep that have gone astray, divided we fall, together we may worry through. Have you seen Professor Radium yet? I should say Mr. Outwood. What do you think of him? He doesn't seem a bad sort of chap. Bid off his nut and jotted about apces and things. And thereby, said Smith, hangs a tale. I've been making inquiries of a stout sportsman in a sort of Salvation Army uniform whom I met in the grounds. He's the school sergeant or something. Quite a solid man. And I hear that comrade Outwood's an archeological cove. Goes about the country beating up old ruins and fossils and things. There's an archeological society in the school run by him. He goes out on half-holidays prowling about and is allowed to break bounds and generally steep itself to the eyebrows in reckless devilry. If you belong to the archeological society, you get off cricket. To get off cricket, said Smith, dusting his right trouser leg, was the dream of my youth and the aspiration of my ripe years. A noble game, but a bit too thick for me. At Eaton I used to have to field out of the nets till the soles of my boots wore through. I suppose you are a blood at the game. Play for the school against the loam-sure and so on. I'm not going to play here at any rate, said Mike. He had made up his mind on this point in the train. There is a certain fascination about making the very worst of a bad job. Achilles knew his business when he sat in his tent. The determination not to play cricket for Sedley, as he could not play for Rickon, gave Mike the sort of pleasure. To stand by with folded arms and a somber frown, as it were, was one way of treating the situation and one not without its mead of comfort. Smith approved the resolve. Stout fellow, he said, tis well, you and I, hand in hand, will search the countryside for ruined abbeys. We will snare the elusive fossil together. Above all, we will go out of bounds. We shall thus improve our minds and have a jolly good time as well. I shouldn't wonder if one might and borrow a gun from some friendly native and do a bit of rabbit shooting here and there. From what I saw of comrade Outwood during our brief interview, I shouldn't think he was one of the linkside contingent. With tact, we ought to be able to slip away from the merry throng of fossil chasers and do a bit on our own account. Good idea, said Mike. We will. A chap at Rickon called Wyatt used to break out at night and shoot at cats with an air pistol. It would take a lot to make me do that. I am all against anything that interferes with my sleep. But rabbits in the daytime is a scheme. We'll nose about for a gun at the earliest op. Meanwhile, we'd better go to comrade Outwood and get our names shoved down for the society. I vote we get some tea first somewhere. Then let's beat up a study. I suppose they have studies here. Let's go and look. They went upstairs. On the first floor, there was a passage with doors on either side. Smith opened the first of these. This'll do us well, he said. There was a big-ish room looking out over the school grounds. There were a couple of deal tables, two empty bookcases, and a looking-glass hung on a nail. Might have been made for us, said Smith approvingly. I suppose it belongs to some robber. Now, now, you aren't going to collar it. That, said Smith, looking at himself earnestly in the mirror and straightening his tie, is the exact program. We must stake out our claims. This is practical socialism. But the real owner's bound to turn up some time or other. His misfortune, not ours. You can't expect two masterminds like us to pig it in that room downstairs. There are moments when one wants to be alone. It is imperative that we have a place to retire to after a fatiguing day. And now, if you want to be really useful, come and help me fetch up my box from downstairs. It's got an etna and various things in it. Chapter 33 Staking out a claim Smith, in the matter of decorating a study and preparing tea in it, was rather a critic than an executant. He was full of ideas, but he preferred to allow Mike to carry them out. It was he who suggested that the wooden bar, which ran across the window, was unnecessary, but it was Mike who wrenched it from its place. Similarly, it was Mike who abstracted the key from the door of the next study, though the idea was Smith's. Privacy, said Smith, as he watched Mike light the etna, is what we chiefly need in this age of publicity. If you leave a study door unlocked in these strenuous times, the first thing you know is somebody comes right in, sits down, and begins to talk about himself. I think with a little care, we ought to be able to make this room quite decently comfortable. That putrid calendar must come down, though. Do you think you could make a long arm and haul it off the parent tin-tack? Thanks. We make progress. We make progress. We shall jolly well make it out of the window, said Mike, spooning up tea from a paper bag with a postcard. If a sort of young hackin' Schmidt turns up and claims the study, what are you going to do about it? Don't let us worry about it. I have a pre-sentiment that he will be an insignificant-looking little weed. How are you getting on with the evening meal? Just ready. What would you give to me at Eaton now? I'd give something to be at Ricken. These school reports, said Smith sympathetically, are the very dickens. Many a bright young lad has been soured by them. Hello. What's this, I wonder? A heavy body had plunged against the door, evidently without a suspicion that there would be any resistance. A rattling at the handle followed, and a voice outside said, Dash, the door! Hackin' Schmidt, said Mike. The weed, said Smith. You couldn't make a long arm, could you, and turn the key? We had better give this merchant audience. Remind me later to go on with my remarks on school reports. I had several bright things to say on the subject. Mike unlocked the door and flung it open. In the entrance was a smallish freckled boy wearing a bowler hat and carrying a bag. On his face was an expression of mingled wrath and astonishment. Smith rose courteously from his chair and moved forward with slow stateliness to do the honors. What, the dickens? inquired the newcomer. Are you doing here? We were having a little tea, said Smith, to restore our tissues after our journey. Come in and join us. We keep open house, we Smith's. Let me introduce you to comrade Jackson, a stout fellow. Homely in appearance perhaps, but one of us. I am Smith. Your own name will doubtless come up in the course of general chit-chat over the teacups. My name's Spiller, and this is my study. Smith leaned against the mantelpiece, put up his eyeglass, and harangued Spiller in a philosophical vein. Of all sad words of tongue or pen, said he, the saddest are these. It might have been. Too late, that is to bitter cry. If you had torn yourself from the bosom of the Spiller family by an earlier train, all might have been well. But no, your father held your hand and said huskily, Edwin, don't leave us. Your mother clung to you, weeping, and said, Edwin, stay. Your sisters, I want to know what your sisters froze onto your knees like little octopuses or octopi, and screamed, don't go, Edwin. And so, said Smith, deeply affected by his recital, you stayed on till the later train, and on arrival you find strange faces in the familiar room, a people that know not Spiller. Smith went to the table and cheered himself with a sip of tea. Spiller's sad case had moved him greatly. The victim of fate seemed in no way consoled. It's beastly cheek, that's what I call it. Are you new chaps? The very latest thing, said Smith. Well, it's beastly cheek. Mike's outlook on life was of the solid practical order. He went straight to the root of the matter. What are you going to do about it? He asked. Spiller evaded the question. It's beastly cheek, he repeated. You can't go about the place begging studies. But we do, said Smith, in this life, comrade Spiller, we must be prepared for every emergency. We must distinguish between the unusual and the impossible. It is unusual for people to go about the place begging studies, so you have rashly ordered your life on the assumption that it is impossible. Error. Ah, Spiller's Spiller, let this be a lesson to you. Look here, I tell you what, I was in a motor with a man once. I said to him, what would happen if you tried on that pedal thing instead of that other pedal thing? He said, I couldn't. One's the foot brake and the other's the accelerator. But suppose you did, I said. I wouldn't, he said. Now we'll let her rip. So he stamped on the accelerator. Only it turned out to be the foot brake after all. And we stopped dead and skidded into a ditch. The advice I give to every young man starting life is never confuse the unusual and the impossible. Take the present case. If you had only realized the possibility of somebody someday collaring your study, you might have thought out dozens of sound schemes for dealing with the matter. As it is, you are unprepared. The thing comes on you as a surprise. The cry goes round. Spiller has been taken unawares. He cannot cope with the situation. Can't I? I'll... What are you going to do about it? Said Mike. All I know is I'm going to have it. It was Simpson's last term and Simpson's left and I'm next on the house list. So of course it's my study. But what steps, said Smith, are you going to take? Spiller, the man of logic we know. But what of Spiller, the man of action? How do you intend to set about it? Force is useless. I was saying to Comrade Jackson before you came in that I didn't mind betting you were an insignificant looking little weed and you are an insignificant looking little weed. We'll see what Outwood says about it. Not an unsound scheme. By no means a scaly project. Comrade Jackson and myself were about to interview him upon another point. We may as well all go together. The trio made their way to the presence. Spiller, pink and determined. Mike, sullen. Smith, particularly debonair. He hummed lightly as he walked and now and then pointed out to Spiller objects of interest by the wayside. Mr. Outwood received them with the motherly warmth which was evidently the leading characteristic of his normal manner. Ah, Spiller, he said, and Smith and Jackson. I am glad to see that you have already made friends. Spiller's sir, said Smith, laying a hand patronizingly on the study-claimer's shoulder, a proceeding violently resented by Spiller. As a character one cannot help but respect, his nature expands before one like some beautiful flower. Mr. Outwood received this eulogy with rather a startled expression and gazed at the object of the tribute in a surprised way. Er, quite so, Smith, quite so, he said at last. I'd like to see boys in my house friendly towards one another. There is no vice in Spiller pursued Smith earnestly. His heart is the heart of a little child. Please, sir, versed out this paragon of all the virtues, but it was not entirely with regard to Spiller that I wished to speak to you, sir, if you were not too busy. Not at all, Smith, not at all. Is there anything? Please, sir, begin, Spiller. I understand, sir, said Smith, that there is an archaeological society in the school. Mr. Outwood's eyes sparkled behind their pence-nay. It was a disappointment to him that so few boys seemed to wish to belong to his chosen band. Cricket and football, games that left him cold, appeared to be the main interest in their lives. It was but rarely that he could induce new boys to join. His colleague, Mr. Downing, who presided over the school fire brigade, never had any difficulty in finding support. Boys came readily at his call. Mr. Outwood pounded wistfully on this at times, not knowing that the fire brigade owed its support to the fact that it provided its lighthearted members with perfectly unparalleled opportunities for ragging, while his own band, though small, were in the main earnest. Yes, Smith, he said. Yes, we have a small archaeological society in a measure to look after it. Perhaps you would care to become a member? Please, sir, said Spiller. One moment, Spiller. Do you want to join, Smith? Intensely, sir. Archaeology fascinates me. A grand pursuit, sir. Undoubtedly, Smith, I am very pleased. Very pleased indeed. I will put down your name at once. And Jackson, sir. Jackson's too. Mr. Outwood beamed. I am delighted, most delighted. This is capital. This enthusiasm is most capital. Spiller, sir, said Smith sadly. I have been unable to induce to join. Oh, he is one of our oldest members. Ah, said Smith tolerantly. That accounts for it. Please, sir, said Spiller. One moment, Spiller. We shall have the first outing of the term on Saturday. We intend to inspect the Roman camp at Embry Hill, two miles from the school. We shall be there, sir. Capital. Please, sir, said Spiller. One moment, Spiller, said Smith. There was just one other matter if you could spare the time, sir. Certainly, Smith. What is that? Would there be any objection to Jackson and myself taking Simpson's old study? By all means, Smith, a very good idea. Yes, sir. It would give us a place where we could work quietly in the evenings. Quite so, quite so. Thank you very much, sir. We will move our things in. Thank you very much, sir, said Mike. Please, sir, shouted Spiller. Aren't I to have it? I'm next on the list, sir. I come next after Simpson. Can't I have it? I'm afraid I have already promised it to Smith, Spiller. You should have spoken before. But, sir, Smith eyed the speaker pityingly. This tendency to delay, Spiller, he said, is your besetting fault. Correct it, Edwin. Fight against it. He turned to Mr. Outwood. We should, of course, sir, always be glad to see Spiller in our study. He would always find a cheery welcome waiting there for him. There is no formality between ourselves and Spiller. Quite so. An excellent arrangement, Smith. I like this spirit of comradeship in my house. Then you will be with us on Saturday? On Saturday, sir. All this sort of thing, Spiller, said Smith, as they closed the door, is very, very trying for a man of culture. Look us up in our study one of these afternoons. Chapter 34. Gorilla Warfare. There are few pleasures, said Smith, as he resumed his favorite position against the mantelpiece and surveyed the common-deared study with the pride of a householder, keener to the reflective mind than sitting under one's own roof tree. This place would have been wasted on Spiller. He would not have appreciated it properly. Mike was finishing his tea. You're a jolly useful chap to have by you in a crisis, Smith, he said with approval. We ought to have known each other before. The loss was mine, said Smith courteously. We will now, with your permission, face the future for a while. I suppose you realize that we are now, to a certain extent, up against it. Spiller's hot Spanish blood is not going to sit tight and do nothing under a blow like this. What can he do outwards, given us the study? What would you have done if somebody had begged your study? Made it jolly hot for them. So will Comrade Spiller. I take it that he will collect a gang and make an offensive movement against us directly he can. To all appearances, we are in a fairly tight place. It all depends on how big Comrade Spiller's gang will be. I don't like rouse, but I'm prepared to take on a reasonable number of bravos in defense of the home. Mike intimated that he was with him on the point. The difficulty is, though, he said, about when we leave this room. I mean, we're all right while we stick here, but we can't stay all night. That's just what I was about to point out when you put it with such admirable clearness. Here we are in a stronghold. They can only get at us through the door and we can lock that and jam a chair against it. And, as you rightly remark, jam a chair against it. But what of the nightfall? What of the time when we retire to our dormitory? Our dormitories? I say if we're in separate rooms, we shall be in the cart. Smith eyed Mike with approval. He thinks of everything. You're the man, Comrade Jackson, to conduct an affair of this kind. Such foresight, such resource. We must cede this at once. If they put us in different rooms, we're done. We shall be destroyed singly in the watches of the night. We'd better nip down to the matron right off. Not the matron. Comrade Outwood is the man. We are his sons to him. There is nothing he can deny us. I'm afraid we are quite spoiling his afternoon by these interruptions, but we must wrote him out once more. As they got up, the door handle rattled again, and this time they're followed and knocking. This must be an emissary of Comrade Spillers, said Smith. Let us parlay with the man. Mike unlocked the door. A light-haired youth with a cheerful rather vacant face and a receding chin strolled into the room and stood giggling with his hands in his pockets. I just came up to have a look at you, he explained. If you move a little to the left, said Smith, you will catch the light and shade effects on Jackson's face better. The newcomer giggled with renewed vigor. Are you the chap with the eyeglass who draws all the time? I do wear an eyeglass, said Smith, as to the rest of the description. My name is Jellico. Mine is Smith, P-S-M-I-T-H, one of the Schrobscher Smiths. The object on the skyline is Comrade Jackson. Old Spiller, giggled Jellico, is cursing you like anything downstairs. You are chaps. Do you mean to say you simply begged his study? He's making no end of a row about it. Spiller's fiery nature is a byword, said Smith. What's he going to do? asked Mike in his practical way. He's going to get the chaps to turn you out. As I suspected, sighed Smith, as one mourning over the frailty of human nature, about how many horny-handed assistants should you say that he would be likely to bring. Will you, for instance, join the glad throng? Me? No fear, I think Spiller's an ass. There's nothing like a common thought for binding people together. I think Spiller's an ass. How many will there be, then? asked Mike. He might get about half a dozen, not more, because most of the chaps don't see why they should sweat themselves just because Spiller's study has been bagged. Sturdy common sense, said Smith approvingly, will be the chief virtue of the subtly character. We shall be able to tackle a crowd like that, said Mike, the only thing is we must get into the same dormitory. This is where Comrade Gellico's knowledge of the local geography will come in useful. Do you happen to know of any snug little room with, say, about four beds in it? How many dormitories are there? Five. There's one with three beds in it, only it belongs to three chaps. I believe in the equal distribution of property. We will go to Comrade Outwood and stake out another claim. Mr. Outwood received them even more beamingly than before. Yes, Smith, he said. We must apologize for disturbing you, sir. Not at all, Smith, not at all. I like the boys in my house to come to me when they wish for my advice or help. We were wondering, sir, if you would have any objection, Jacks and Gellico and myself sharing the dormitory with the three beds in it. A very warm friendship, explained Smith, patting the gurgling Gellico kindly on the shoulder, has sprung up between Jacks and Gellico and myself. You make friends easily, Smith. I like to see it. I like to see it. And we can have the room, sir. Certainly, certainly tell the matron as you go down. And now, said Smith, as they returned to the study, we may say that we are in a fairly winning position. A vote of thanks to comrade Gellico for his valuable assistance. You are a chap, said Gellico. The handle began to revolve again. That door, said Smith, is getting a perfect incubus. It cuts into one's leisure cruelly. This time it was a small boy. They told me to come up and tell you to come down, he said. Smith looked at him searchingly through his eyeglass. Who? The senior day room chaps. Spiller? Spiller and Robinson and Stone and some other chaps. They wanted us to speak to them? They told me to come up and tell you to come down. Go and give comrade Spiller our compliments and say that we can't come down, but shall be delighted to see him up here. Things, he said as the messenger departed, he was beginning to move. Better leave the door open, I think it will save trouble. Ah, come in comrade Spiller, what can we do for you? Spiller advanced into the study. The others waited outside, crowding in the doorway. Look here, said Spiller. Are you going to clear out of here or not? After Mr. Outwood's kindly thought in giving us the room, you suggest a black and ungrateful action, comrade Spiller. You'll get it hot if you don't. Come on, Grisket, said Mike. Jellicole giggled in the background. The drama in the atmosphere appealed to him. His was a simple and appreciative mind. Come on, you chaps, cried Spiller suddenly. There was an inward brush on the enemy's part, but Mike had been watching. He grabbed Spiller by the shoulders and ran him back against the advancing crowd. For a moment the doorway was blocked. Great and impetus of Mike and Spiller prevailed. The enemy gave back, and Mike, stepping into the room again, slammed the door and locked it. A neat piece of work, said Smith approvingly, adjusting his tie at the looking glass. The preliminaries may now be considered over. The first shot has been fired. The dogs of war are now loose. A heavy body crashed against the door. They'll have it down, said Jellicole. We must act, Comrade Jackson. Might I trouble you just to turn that key quietly and the handle and then to stand by for the next attack? There was a scrambling of feet in the passage outside and then a repetition of the onslaught on the door. This time, however, the door, instead of resisting, swung open and the human battering ram staggered through into the study. Mike, turning after relocking the door, was just in time to see Smith with a display of energy of which one would not have believed him capable, gripped the invaders scientifically by an arm and a leg. Mike jumped to help, but it was needless. The captive was already on the window sill. As Mike arrived, Smith dropped him onto the flower bed below. Smith closed the window gently and turned to Jellicole. Who was our guest, he asked, dusting the knees of his trousers where they had pressed against the wall. Robinson, I say you are a chap. Robinson, was it? Well, we are always glad to see comrade Robinson, always. I wonder if anybody else is thinking of calling. Apparently frontal attack had been abandoned. Whispering could be heard in the corridor. Somebody hammered on the door. Yes, called Smith patiently. You'd better come out, you know. You'll only get it hotter if you don't. Leave us, billar, we would be alone. A bell rang in the distance. Tea, said Jellicole, we shall have to go now. They won't do anything till after tea, I shouldn't think, said Mike. There's no harm in going out. The passage was empty when they opened the door. The call to food was evidently a thing not to be treated lightly by the enemy. In the dining room the beleaguered garrison were the object of general attention. Everybody turned to look at them as they came in. It was plain that the study episode had been a topic of conversation. Spillers' face was crimson, and Robinson's coat sleeves still bore traces of garden mold. Mike felt rather conscious of the eyes, but Smith was in his element. His demeanor throughout the meal was that of some whimsical monarch condescending for a freak to rubble with his humble subjects. Towards the end of the meal Smith scribbled a note and passed it to Mike. It read, "'Directly this is over, nip upstairs as quickly as you can.' Mike followed the advice. They were first out of the room. When they had been in the study a few moments, Jellicole knocked at the door. "'Lucky you two cut away so quick,' he said. "'They were going to try and get you into the senior day room and scrag you there.' "'This,' said Smith, leaning against the mantelpiece, "'is exciting, but it can't go on. "'We have got for our sins to be in this place for a whole term, and if we are going to do the hunted fawn business all the time, life in the true sense of the word will become an impossibility. Nine nerves are so delicately attuned that the strain would simply reduce them to hash. We are not prepared to carry on along campaign. The thing must be settled at once.' "'Shall we go down to the senior day room and have it out?' said Mike. "'No. We will play the fixture on our own ground. I think we may take it as tolerably certain that Comrade Spiller and his hired ruffians will try to corner us in the dormitory tonight.' "'Well, of course, we could fake up some sort of barricade for the door, but then we should have all the trouble over again tomorrow and the day after that. Personally, I don't propose to be shivvyed about indefinitely like this, so I propose that we let them come into the dormitory and see what happens. "'Is this meeting with me?' "'I think that sound,' said Mike. "'He didn't drag Jellico into it.' "'As a matter of fact, if you don't mind,' began that man of peace.' "'Quite right,' said Smith. "'This is not Comrade Jellico's scene at all. He has got to spend the term in the senior day room, whereas we have our little wooden chalet to retire to in times of stress. Comrade Jellico must stand out of the game altogether. We shall be glad of his moral support, but otherwise, ne pas. And now, as there won't be anything doing till bedtime, I think I'll collar this table and write home and tell my people that all is well with their Rupert." End of section 12.