Mike

“I have.  I’ll tell you what makes me think the thing’s settled.  I was in the pav. just now, in the First room, trying to find a batting-glove I’d mislaid.  There was a copy of the Wrykynian lying on the mantelpiece, and I picked it up and started reading it.  So there wasn’t any noise to show anybody outside that there was some one in the room.  And then I heard Burgess and Spence jawing on the steps.  They thought the place was empty, of course.  I couldn’t help hearing what they said.  The pav.’s like a sounding-board.  I heard every word.  Spence said, ’Well, it’s about as difficult a problem as any captain of cricket at Wrykyn has ever had to tackle.’  I had a sort of idea that old Billy liked to boss things all on his own, but apparently he does consult Spence sometimes.  After all, he’s cricket-master, and that’s what he’s there for.  Well, Billy said, ’I don’t know what to do.  What do you think, sir?’ Spence said, ’Well, I’ll give you my opinion, Burgess, but don’t feel bound to act on it.  I’m simply saying what I think.’  ‘Yes, sir,’ said old Bill, doing a big Young Disciple with Wise Master act. ‘I think M.,’ said Spence.  ’Decidedly M. He’s a shade better than R. now, and in a year or two, of course, there’ll be no comparison.’”

“Oh, rot,” muttered Mike, wiping the sweat off his forehead.  This was one of the most harrowing interviews he had ever been through.

“Not at all.  Billy agreed with him.  ‘That’s just what I think, sir,’ he said.  ‘It’s rough on Bob, but still——­’ And then they walked down the steps.  I waited a bit to give them a good start, and then sheered off myself.  And so home.”

Mike looked at the floor, and said nothing.

There was nothing much to be said.

“Well, what I wanted to see you about was this,” resumed Bob.  “I don’t propose to kiss you or anything; but, on the other hand, don’t let’s go to the other extreme.  I’m not saying that it isn’t a bit of a brick just missing my cap like this, but it would have been just as bad for you if you’d been the one dropped.  It’s the fortune of war.  I don’t want you to go about feeling that you’ve blighted my life, and so on, and dashing up side-streets to avoid me because you think the sight of you will be painful.  As it isn’t me, I’m jolly glad it’s you; and I shall cadge a seat in the pavilion from you when you’re playing for England at the Oval.  Congratulate you.”

It was the custom at Wrykyn, when you congratulated a man on getting colours, to shake his hand.  They shook hands.

“Thanks, awfully, Bob,” said Mike.  And after that there seemed to be nothing much to talk about.  So Mike edged out of the room, and tore across to Wain’s.

He was sorry for Bob, but he would not have been human (which he certainly was) if the triumph of having won through at last into the first eleven had not dwarfed commiseration.  It had been his one ambition, and now he had achieved it.

The annoying part of the thing was that he had nobody to talk to about it.  Until the news was official he could not mention it to the common herd.  It wouldn’t do.  The only possible confidant was Wyatt.  And Wyatt was at Bisley, shooting with the School Eight for the Ashburton.  For bull’s-eyes as well as cats came within Wyatt’s range as a marksman.  Cricket took up too much of his time for him to be captain of the Eight and the man chosen to shoot for the Spencer, as he would otherwise almost certainly have been; but even though short of practice he was well up in the team.

Until he returned, Mike could tell nobody.  And by the time he returned the notice would probably be up in the Senior Block with the other cricket notices.

In this fermenting state Mike went into the house.

The list of the team to play for Wain’s v.  Seymour’s on the following Monday was on the board.  As he passed it, a few words scrawled in pencil at the bottom caught his eye.

   “All the above will turn out for house-fielding at 6.30 to-morrow morning.—­W.  F.-S.”

“Oh, dash it,” said Mike, “what rot!  Why on earth can’t he leave us alone!”

For getting up an hour before his customary time for rising was not among Mike’s favourite pastimes.  Still, orders were orders, he felt.  It would have to be done.

CHAPTER XIX MIKE GOES TO SLEEP AGAIN

Mike was a stout supporter of the view that sleep in large quantities is good for one.  He belonged to the school of thought which holds that a man becomes plain and pasty if deprived of his full spell in bed.  He aimed at the peach-bloom complexion.

To be routed out of bed a clear hour before the proper time, even on a summer morning, was not, therefore, a prospect that appealed to him.

When he woke it seemed even less attractive than it had done when he went to sleep.  He had banged his head on the pillow six times over-night, and this silent alarm proved effective, as it always does.  Reaching out a hand for his watch, he found that it was five minutes past six.