Mike

“Read that,” he said, and went up to the headmaster.  Mike heard the words “English Essay,” and, seeing that the conversation was apparently going to be one of some length, capped the headmaster and walked off.  He was just going to read the letter when the bell rang.  He put the missive in his pocket, and went to his form-room wondering what Marjory could have found to say to Bob to touch him on the raw to such an extent.  She was a breezy correspondent, with a style of her own, but usually she entertained rather than upset people.  No suspicion of the actual contents of the letter crossed his mind.

He read it during school, under the desk; and ceased to wonder.  Bob had had cause to look worried.  For the thousand and first time in her career of crime Marjory had been and done it!  With a strong hand she had shaken the cat out of the bag, and exhibited it plainly to all whom it might concern.

There was a curious absence of construction about the letter.  Most authors of sensational matter nurse their bomb-shell, lead up to it, and display it to the best advantage.  Marjory dropped hers into the body of the letter, and let it take its chance with the other news-items.

   “DEAR BOB” (the letter ran),—­

“I hope you are quite well.  I am quite well.  Phyllis has a cold, Ella cheeked Mademoiselle yesterday, and had to write out ’Little Girls must be polite and obedient’ a hundred times in French.  She was jolly sick about it.  I told her it served her right.  Joe made eighty-three against Lancashire.  Reggie made a duck.  Have you got your first?  If you have, it will be all through Mike.  Uncle John told Father that Mike pretended to hurt his wrist so that you could play instead of him for the school, and Father said it was very sporting of Mike but nobody must tell you because it wouldn’t be fair if you got your first for you to know that you owed it to Mike and I wasn’t supposed to hear but I did because I was in the room only they didn’t know I was (we were playing hide-and-seek and I was hiding) so I’m writing to tell you,

“From your affectionate sister

“Marjory.”

There followed a P.S.

“I’ll tell you what you ought to do.  I’ve been reading a jolly good book called ‘The Boys of Dormitory Two,’ and the hero’s an awfully nice boy named Lionel Tremayne, and his friend Jack Langdale saves his life when a beast of a boatman who’s really employed by Lionel’s cousin who wants the money that Lionel’s going to have when he grows up stuns him and leaves him on the beach to drown.  Well, Lionel is going to play for the school against Loamshire, and it’s the match of the season, but he goes to the headmaster and says he wants Jack to play instead of him.  Why don’t you do that?

   “M.

   “P.P.S.—­This has been a frightful fag to write.”

For the life of him Mike could not help giggling as he pictured what Bob’s expression must have been when his brother read this document.  But the humorous side of the thing did not appeal to him for long.  What should he say to Bob?  What would Bob say to him?  Dash it all, it made him look such an awful ass!  Anyhow, Bob couldn’t do much.  In fact he didn’t see that he could do anything.  The team was filled up, and Burgess was not likely to alter it.  Besides, why should he alter it?  Probably he would have given Bob his colours anyhow.  Still, it was beastly awkward.  Marjory meant well, but she had put her foot right in it.  Girls oughtn’t to meddle with these things.  No girl ought to be taught to write till she came of age.  And Uncle John had behaved in many respects like the Complete Rotter.  If he was going to let out things like that, he might at least have whispered them, or looked behind the curtains to see that the place wasn’t chock-full of female kids.  Confound Uncle John!

Throughout the dinner-hour Mike kept out of Bob’s way.  But in a small community like a school it is impossible to avoid a man for ever.  They met at the nets.

“Well?” said Bob.

“How do you mean?” said Mike.

“Did you read it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, is it all rot, or did you—­you know what I mean—­sham a crocked wrist?”

“Yes,” said Mike, “I did.”

Bob stared gloomily at his toes.

“I mean,” he said at last, apparently putting the finishing-touch to some train of thought, “I know I ought to be grateful, and all that.  I suppose I am.  I mean it was jolly good of you—­Dash it all,” he broke off hotly, as if the putting his position into words had suddenly showed him how inglorious it was, “what did you want to do it for?  What was the idea?  What right have you got to go about playing Providence over me?  Dash it all, it’s like giving a fellow money without consulting him.”

“I didn’t think you’d ever know.  You wouldn’t have if only that ass Uncle John hadn’t let it out.”

“How did he get to know?  Why did you tell him?”