Mike

Wrykyn went down badly before the Incogs.  It generally happens at least once in a school cricket season that the team collapses hopelessly, for no apparent reason.  Some schools do it in nearly every match, but Wrykyn so far had been particularly fortunate this year.  They had only been beaten once, and that by a mere twenty odd runs in a hard-fought game.  But on this particular day, against a not overwhelmingly strong side, they failed miserably.  The weather may have had something to do with it, for rain fell early in the morning, and the school, batting first on the drying wicket, found themselves considerably puzzled by a slow left-hander.  Morris and Berridge left with the score still short of ten, and after that the rout began.  Bob, going in fourth wicket, made a dozen, and Mike kept his end up, and was not out eleven; but nobody except Wyatt, who hit out at everything and knocked up thirty before he was stumped, did anything to distinguish himself.  The total was a hundred and seven, and the Incogniti, batting when the wicket was easier, doubled this.

The general opinion of the school after this match was that either Mike or Bob would have to stand down from the team when it was definitely filled up, for Neville-Smith, by showing up well with the ball against the Incogniti when the others failed with the bat, made it practically certain that he would get one of the two vacancies.

“If I do” he said to Wyatt, “there will be the biggest bust of modern times at my place.  My pater is away for a holiday in Norway, and I’m alone, bar the servants.  And I can square them.  Will you come?”

“Tea?”

“Tea!” said Neville-Smith scornfully.

“Well, what then?”

“Don’t you ever have feeds in the dorms. after lights-out in the houses?”

“Used to when I was a kid.  Too old now.  Have to look after my digestion.  I remember, three years ago, when Wain’s won the footer cup, we got up and fed at about two in the morning.  All sorts of luxuries.  Sardines on sugar-biscuits.  I’ve got the taste in my mouth still.  Do you remember Macpherson?  Left a couple of years ago.  His food ran out, so he spread brown-boot polish on bread, and ate that.  Got through a slice, too.  Wonderful chap!  But what about this thing of yours?  What time’s it going to be?”

“Eleven suit you?”

“All right.”

“How about getting out?”

“I’ll do it as quickly as the team did to-day.  I can’t say more than that.”

“You were all right.”

“I’m an exceptional sort of chap.”

“What about the Jacksons?”

“It’s going to be a close thing.  If Bob’s fielding were to improve suddenly, he would just do it.  But young Mike’s all over him as a bat.  In a year or two that kid’ll be a marvel.  He’s bound to get in next year, of course, so perhaps it would be better if Bob got the place as it’s his last season.  Still, one wants the best man, of course.”

Mike avoided Bob as much as possible during this anxious period; and he privately thought it rather tactless of the latter when, meeting him one day outside Donaldson’s, he insisted on his coming in and having some tea.

Mike shuffled uncomfortably as his brother filled the kettle and lit the Etna.  It required more tact than he had at his disposal to carry off a situation like this.

Bob, being older, was more at his ease.  He got tea ready, making desultory conversation the while, as if there were no particular reason why either of them should feel uncomfortable in the other’s presence.  When he had finished, he poured Mike out a cup, passed him the bread, and sat down.

“Not seen much of each other lately, Mike, what?”

Mike murmured unintelligibly through a mouthful of bread-and-jam.

“It’s no good pretending it isn’t an awkward situation,” continued Bob, “because it is.  Beastly awkward.”

“Awful rot the pater sending us to the same school.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  We’ve all been at Wrykyn.  Pity to spoil the record.  It’s your fault for being such a young Infant Prodigy, and mine for not being able to field like an ordinary human being.”

“You get on much better in the deep.”

“Bit better, yes.  Liable at any moment to miss a sitter, though.  Not that it matters much really whether I do now.”

Mike stared.

“What!  Why?”

“That’s what I wanted to see you about.  Has Burgess said anything to you yet?”

“No.  Why?  What about?”

“Well, I’ve a sort of idea our little race is over.  I fancy you’ve won.”

“I’ve not heard a word——­”