Mike

“I suppose you can’t very well, now it’s up.  Tell you what, though, I don’t see why I shouldn’t stand out of the team for the Ripton match.  I could easily fake up some excuse.”

“I do.  I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, but the idea is rather to win the Ripton match, if possible.  So that I’m a lot keen on putting the best team into the field.  Sorry if it upsets your arrangements in any way.”

“You know perfectly well Mike’s every bit as good as me.”

“He isn’t so keen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fielding.  He’s a young slacker.”

When Burgess had once labelled a man as that, he did not readily let the idea out of his mind.

“Slacker?  What rot!  He’s as keen as anything.”

“Anyhow, his keenness isn’t enough to make him turn out for house-fielding.  If you really want to know, that’s why you’ve got your first instead of him.  You sweated away, and improved your fielding twenty per cent.; and I happened to be talking to Firby-Smith and found that young Mike had been shirking his, so out he went.  A bad field’s bad enough, but a slack field wants skinning.”

“Smith oughtn’t to have told you.”

“Well, he did tell me.  So you see how it is.  There won’t be any changes from the team I’ve put up on the board.”

“Oh, all right,” said Bob.  “I was afraid you mightn’t be able to do anything.  So long.”

“Mind the step,” said Burgess.

At about the time when this conversation was in progress, Wyatt, crossing the cricket-field towards the school shop in search of something fizzy that might correct a burning thirst acquired at the nets, espied on the horizon a suit of cricket flannels surmounted by a huge, expansive grin.  As the distance between them lessened, he discovered that inside the flannels was Neville-Smith’s body and behind the grin the rest of Neville-Smith’s face.  Their visit to the nets not having coincided in point of time, as the Greek exercise books say, Wyatt had not seen his friend since the list of the team had been posted on the board, so he proceeded to congratulate him on his colours.

“Thanks,” said Neville-Smith, with a brilliant display of front teeth.

“Feeling good?”

“Not the word for it.  I feel like—­I don’t know what.”

“I’ll tell you what you look like, if that’s any good to you.  That slight smile of yours will meet behind, if you don’t look out, and then the top of your head’ll come off.”

“I don’t care.  I’ve got my first, whatever happens.  Little Willie’s going to buy a nice new cap and a pretty striped jacket all for his own self!  I say, thanks for reminding me.  Not that you did, but supposing you had.  At any rate, I remember what it was I wanted to say to you.  You know what I was saying to you about the bust I meant to have at home in honour of my getting my first, if I did, which I have—­well, anyhow it’s to-night.  You can roll up, can’t you?”

“Delighted.  Anything for a free feed in these hard times.  What time did you say it was?”

“Eleven.  Make it a bit earlier, if you like.”

“No, eleven’ll do me all right.”

“How are you going to get out?”

“‘Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.’  That’s what the man said who wrote the libretto for the last set of Latin Verses we had to do.  I shall manage it.”

“They ought to allow you a latch-key.”

“Yes, I’ve often thought of asking my pater for one.  Still, I get on very well.  Who are coming besides me?”

“No boarders.  They all funked it.”

“The race is degenerating.”

“Said it wasn’t good enough.”

“The school is going to the dogs.  Who did you ask?”

“Clowes was one.  Said he didn’t want to miss his beauty-sleep.  And Henfrey backed out because he thought the risk of being sacked wasn’t good enough.”

“That’s an aspect of the thing that might occur to some people.  I don’t blame him—­I might feel like that myself if I’d got another couple of years at school.”

“But one or two day-boys are coming.  Clephane is, for one.  And Beverley.  We shall have rather a rag.  I’m going to get the things now.”

“When I get to your place—­I don’t believe I know the way, now I come to think of it—­what do I do?  Ring the bell and send in my card? or smash the nearest window and climb in?”

“Don’t make too much row, for goodness sake.  All the servants’ll have gone to bed.  You’ll see the window of my room.  It’s just above the porch.  It’ll be the only one lighted up.  Heave a pebble at it, and I’ll come down.”

“So will the glass—­with a run, I expect.  Still, I’ll try to do as little damage as possible.  After all, I needn’t throw a brick.”

“You will turn up, won’t you?”

“Nothing shall stop me.”

“Good man.”

As Wyatt was turning away, a sudden compunction seized upon Neville-Smith.  He called him back.

“I say, you don’t think it’s too risky, do you?  I mean, you always are breaking out at night, aren’t you?  I don’t want to get you into a row.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Wyatt.  “Don’t you worry about me.  I should have gone out anyhow to-night.”

CHAPTER XXIII A SURPRISE FOR MR. APPLEBY