Mike

“He’s as good a bat as his brother, and a better field.”

“Old Bob can’t field for toffee.  I will say that for him.  Dropped a sitter off me to-day.  Why the deuce fellows can’t hold catches when they drop slowly into their mouths I’m hanged if I can see.”

“You play him,” said Wyatt.  “Just give him a trial.  That kid’s a genius at cricket.  He’s going to be better than any of his brothers, even Joe.  Give him a shot.”

Burgess hesitated.

“You know, it’s a bit risky,” he said.  “With you three lunatics out of the team we can’t afford to try many experiments.  Better stick to the men at the top of the second.”

Wyatt got up, and kicked the wall as a vent for his feelings.

“You rotter,” he said.  “Can’t you see when you’ve got a good man?  Here’s this kid waiting for you ready made with a style like Trumper’s, and you rave about top men in the second, chaps who play forward at everything, and pat half-volleys back to the bowler!  Do you realise that your only chance of being known to Posterity is as the man who gave M. Jackson his colours at Wrykyn?  In a few years he’ll be playing for England, and you’ll think it a favour if he nods to you in the pav. at Lord’s.  When you’re a white-haired old man you’ll go doddering about, gassing to your grandchildren, poor kids, how you ‘discovered’ M. Jackson.  It’ll be the only thing they’ll respect you for.”

Wyatt stopped for breath.

“All right,” said Burgess, “I’ll think it over.  Frightful gift of the gab you’ve got, Wyatt.”

“Good,” said Wyatt.  “Think it over.  And don’t forget what I said about the grandchildren.  You would like little Wyatt Burgess and the other little Burgesses to respect you in your old age, wouldn’t you?  Very well, then.  So long.  The bell went ages ago.  I shall be locked out.”

On the Monday morning Mike passed the notice-board just as Burgess turned away from pinning up the list of the team to play the M.C.C.  He read it, and his heart missed a beat.  For, bottom but one, just above the W. B. Burgess, was a name that leaped from the paper at him.  His own name.

CHAPTER XIII THE M.C.C. MATCH

If the day happens to be fine, there is a curious, dream-like atmosphere about the opening stages of a first eleven match.  Everything seems hushed and expectant.  The rest of the school have gone in after the interval at eleven o’clock, and you are alone on the grounds with a cricket-bag.  The only signs of life are a few pedestrians on the road beyond the railings and one or two blazer and flannel-clad forms in the pavilion.  The sense of isolation is trying to the nerves, and a school team usually bats 25 per cent. better after lunch, when the strangeness has worn off.

Mike walked across from Wain’s, where he had changed, feeling quite hollow.  He could almost have cried with pure fright.  Bob had shouted after him from a window as he passed Donaldson’s, to wait, so that they could walk over together; but conversation was the last thing Mike desired at that moment.

He had almost reached the pavilion when one of the M.C.C. team came down the steps, saw him, and stopped dead.

“By Jove, Saunders!” cried Mike.

“Why, Master Mike!”

The professional beamed, and quite suddenly, the lost, hopeless feeling left Mike.  He felt as cheerful as if he and Saunders had met in the meadow at home, and were just going to begin a little quiet net-practice.

“Why, Master Mike, you don’t mean to say you’re playing for the school already?”

Mike nodded happily.

“Isn’t it ripping,” he said.

Saunders slapped his leg in a sort of ecstasy.

“Didn’t I always say it, sir,” he chuckled.  “Wasn’t I right?  I used to say to myself it ’ud be a pretty good school team that ’ud leave you out.”

“Of course, I’m only playing as a sub., you know.  Three chaps are in extra, and I got one of the places.”

“Well, you’ll make a hundred to-day, Master Mike, and then they’ll have to put you in.”

“Wish I could!”

“Master Joe’s come down with the Club,” said Saunders.

“Joe!  Has he really?  How ripping!  Hullo, here he is.  Hullo, Joe?”

The greatest of all the Jacksons was descending the pavilion steps with the gravity befitting an All England batsman.  He stopped short, as Saunders had done.

“Mike!  You aren’t playing!”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m hanged!  Young marvel, isn’t he, Saunders?”

“He is, sir,” said Saunders.  “Got all the strokes.  I always said it, Master Joe.  Only wants the strength.”

Joe took Mike by the shoulder, and walked him off in the direction of a man in a Zingari blazer who was bowling slows to another of the M.C.C. team.  Mike recognised him with awe as one of the three best amateur wicket-keepers in the country.

“What do you think of this?” said Joe, exhibiting Mike, who grinned bashfully.  “Aged ten last birthday, and playing for the school.  You are only ten, aren’t you, Mike?”

“Brother of yours?” asked the wicket-keeper.

“Probably too proud to own the relationship, but he is.”

“Isn’t there any end to you Jacksons?” demanded the wicket-keeper in an aggrieved tone.  “I never saw such a family.”