Mike

“I’m almost certain I should.  I’ll practise like mad.  Trevor’ll hit me up catches.  I hate the slips.  I get in the dickens of a funk directly the bowler starts his run now.  I know that if a catch does come, I shall miss it.  I’m certain the deep would be much better.”

“All right then.  Try it.”

The conversation turned to less pressing topics.

In the next two matches, accordingly, Bob figured on the boundary, where he had not much to do except throw the ball back to the bowler, and stop an occasional drive along the carpet.  The beauty of fielding in the deep is that no unpleasant surprises can be sprung upon one.  There is just that moment or two for collecting one’s thoughts which makes the whole difference.  Bob, as he stood regarding the game from afar, found his self-confidence returning slowly, drop by drop.

As for Mike, he played for the second, and hoped for the day.

His opportunity came at last.  It will be remembered that on the morning after the Great Picnic the headmaster made an announcement in Hall to the effect that, owing to an outbreak of chicken-pox in the town, all streets except the High Street would be out of bounds.  This did not affect the bulk of the school, for most of the shops to which any one ever thought of going were in the High Street.  But there were certain inquiring minds who liked to ferret about in odd corners.

Among these was one Leather-Twigg, of Seymour’s, better known in criminal circles as Shoeblossom.

Shoeblossom was a curious mixture of the Energetic Ragger and the Quiet Student.  On a Monday evening you would hear a hideous uproar proceeding from Seymour’s junior day-room; and, going down with a swagger-stick to investigate, you would find a tangled heap of squealing humanity on the floor, and at the bottom of the heap, squealing louder than any two others, would be Shoeblossom, his collar burst and blackened and his face apoplectically crimson.  On the Tuesday afternoon, strolling in some shady corner of the grounds you would come upon him lying on his chest, deep in some work of fiction and resentful of interruption.  On the Wednesday morning he would be in receipt of four hundred lines from his housemaster for breaking three windows and a gas-globe.  Essentially a man of moods, Shoeblossom.

It happened about the date of the Geddington match that he took out from the school library a copy of “The Iron Pirate,” and for the next day or two he wandered about like a lost spirit trying to find a sequestered spot in which to read it.  His inability to hit on such a spot was rendered more irritating by the fact that, to judge from the first few chapters (which he had managed to get through during prep. one night under the eye of a short-sighted master), the book was obviously the last word in hot stuff.  He tried the junior day-room, but people threw cushions at him.  He tried out of doors, and a ball hit from a neighbouring net nearly scalped him.  Anything in the nature of concentration became impossible in these circumstances.

Then he recollected that in a quiet backwater off the High Street there was a little confectioner’s shop, where tea might be had at a reasonable sum, and also, what was more important, peace.

He made his way there, and in the dingy back shop, all amongst the dust and bluebottles, settled down to a thoughtful perusal of chapter six.

Upstairs, at the same moment, the doctor was recommending that Master John George, the son of the house, be kept warm and out of draughts and not permitted to scratch himself, however necessary such an action might seem to him.  In brief, he was attending J. G. for chicken-pox.

Shoeblossom came away, entering the High Street furtively, lest Authority should see him out of bounds, and returned to the school, where he went about his lawful occasions as if there were no such thing as chicken-pox in the world.

But all the while the microbe was getting in some unostentatious but clever work.  A week later Shoeblossom began to feel queer.  He had occasional headaches, and found himself oppressed by a queer distaste for food.  The professional advice of Dr. Oakes, the school doctor, was called for, and Shoeblossom took up his abode in the Infirmary, where he read Punch, sucked oranges, and thought of Life.

Two days later Barry felt queer.  He, too, disappeared from Society.

Chicken-pox is no respecter of persons.  The next victim was Marsh, of the first eleven.  Marsh, who was top of the school averages.  Where were his drives now, his late cuts that were wont to set the pavilion in a roar.  Wrapped in a blanket, and looking like the spotted marvel of a travelling circus, he was driven across to the Infirmary in a four-wheeler, and it became incumbent upon Burgess to select a substitute for him.

And so it came about that Mike soared once again into the ranks of the elect, and found his name down in the team to play against the Incogniti.

CHAPTER XVIII BOB HAS NEWS TO IMPART