Mike

“Do—­you—­see, you frightful kid?”

Mike remained stonily silent.  The rather large grain of truth in what Firby-Smith had said had gone home, as the unpleasant truth about ourselves is apt to do; and his feelings were hurt.  He was determined not to give in and say that he saw even if the head of the house invoked all the majesty of the prefects’ room to help him, as he had nearly done once before.  He set his teeth, and stared at a photograph on the wall.

Firby-Smith’s manner became ominously calm.  He produced a swagger-stick from a corner.

“Do you see?” he asked again.

Mike’s jaw set more tightly.

What one really wants here is a row of stars.

*      *      *      *      *

Mike was still full of his injuries when Wyatt came back.  Wyatt was worn out, but cheerful.  The school had finished sixth for the Ashburton, which was an improvement of eight places on their last year’s form, and he himself had scored thirty at the two hundred and twenty-seven at the five hundred totals, which had put him in a very good humour with the world.

“Me ancient skill has not deserted me,” he said, “That’s the cats.  The man who can wing a cat by moonlight can put a bullet where he likes on a target.  I didn’t hit the bull every time, but that was to give the other fellows a chance.  My fatal modesty has always been a hindrance to me in life, and I suppose it always will be.  Well, well!  And what of the old homestead?  Anything happened since I went away?  Me old father, is he well?  Has the lost will been discovered, or is there a mortgage on the family estates?  By Jove, I could do with a stoup of Malvoisie.  I wonder if the moke’s gone to bed yet.  I’ll go down and look.  A jug of water drawn from the well in the old courtyard where my ancestors have played as children for centuries back would just about save my life.”

He left the dormitory, and Mike began to brood over his wrongs once more.

Wyatt came back, brandishing a jug of water and a glass.

“Oh, for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene!  Have you ever tasted Hippocrene, young Jackson?  Rather like ginger-beer, with a dash of raspberry-vinegar.  Very heady.  Failing that, water will do.  A-ah!”

He put down the glass, and surveyed Mike, who had maintained a moody silence throughout this speech.

“What’s your trouble?” he asked.  “For pains in the back try Ju-jar.  If it’s a broken heart, Zam-buk’s what you want.  Who’s been quarrelling with you?”

“It’s only that ass Firby-Smith.”

“Again!  I never saw such chaps as you two.  Always at it.  What was the trouble this time?  Call him a grinning ape again?  Your passion for the truth’ll be getting you into trouble one of these days.”

“He said I stuck on side.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, did he buttonhole you on your way to school, and say, ‘Jackson, a word in your ear.  You stick on side.’  Or did he lead up to it in any way?  Did he say, ‘Talking of side, you stick it on.’  What had you been doing to him?”

“It was the house-fielding.”

“But you can’t stick on side at house-fielding.  I defy any one to.  It’s too early in the morning.”

“I didn’t turn up.”

“What!  Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“No, but, look here, really.  Did you simply bunk it?”

“Yes.”

Wyatt leaned on the end of Mike’s bed, and, having observed its occupant thoughtfully for a moment, proceeded to speak wisdom for the good of his soul.

“I say, I don’t want to jaw—­I’m one of those quiet chaps with strong, silent natures; you may have noticed it—­but I must put in a well-chosen word at this juncture.  Don’t pretend to be dropping off to sleep.  Sit up and listen to what your kind old uncle’s got to say to you about manners and deportment.  Otherwise, blood as you are at cricket, you’ll have a rotten time here.  There are some things you simply can’t do; and one of them is bunking a thing when you’re put down for it.  It doesn’t matter who it is puts you down.  If he’s captain, you’ve got to obey him.  That’s discipline, that ’ere is.  The speaker then paused, and took a sip of water from the carafe which stood at his elbow.  Cheers from the audience, and a voice ’Hear!  Hear!’”

Mike rolled over in bed and glared up at the orator.  Most of his face was covered by the water-jug, but his eyes stared fixedly from above it.  He winked in a friendly way, and, putting down the jug, drew a deep breath.

“Nothing like this old ’87 water,” he said.  “Such body.”

“I like you jawing about discipline,” said Mike morosely.

“And why, my gentle che-ild, should I not talk about discipline?”

“Considering you break out of the house nearly every night.”