Mike

The result of which meditation was that Burgess got a second shock before the day was out.  Bob, going over to the nets rather late in the afternoon, came upon the captain of cricket standing apart from his fellow men with an expression on his face that spoke of mental upheavals on a vast scale.

“What’s up?” asked Bob.

“Nothing much,” said Burgess, with a forced and grisly calm.  “Only that, as far as I can see, we shall play Ripton on Saturday with a sort of second eleven.  You don’t happen to have got sacked or anything, by the way, do you?”

“What’s happened now?”

“Neville-Smith.  In extra on Saturday.  That’s all.  Only our first- and second-change bowlers out of the team for the Ripton match in one day.  I suppose by to-morrow half the others’ll have gone, and we shall take the field on Saturday with a scratch side of kids from the Junior School.”

“Neville-Smith!  Why, what’s he been doing?”

“Apparently he gave a sort of supper to celebrate his getting his first, and it was while coming back from that that Wyatt got collared.  Well, I’m blowed if Neville-Smith doesn’t toddle off to the Old Man after school to-day and tell him the whole yarn!  Said it was all his fault.  What rot!  Sort of thing that might have happened to any one.  If Wyatt hadn’t gone to him, he’d probably have gone out somewhere else.”

“And the Old Man shoved him in extra?”

“Next two Saturdays.”

“Are Ripton strong this year?” asked Bob, for lack of anything better to say.

“Very, from all accounts.  They whacked the M.C.C.  Jolly hot team of M.C.C. too.  Stronger than the one we drew with.”

“Oh, well, you never know what’s going to happen at cricket.  I may hold a catch for a change.”

Burgess grunted.

Bob went on his way to the nets.  Mike was just putting on his pads.

“I say, Mike,” said Bob.  “I wanted to see you.  It’s about Wyatt.  I’ve thought of something.”

“What’s that?”

“A way of getting him out of that bank.  If it comes off, that’s to say.”

“By Jove, he’d jump at anything.  What’s the idea?”

“Why shouldn’t he get a job of sorts out in the Argentine?  There ought to be heaps of sound jobs going there for a chap like Wyatt.  He’s a jolly good shot, to start with.  I shouldn’t wonder if it wasn’t rather a score to be able to shoot out there.  And he can ride, I know.”

“By Jove, I’ll write to father to-night.  He must be able to work it, I should think.  He never chucked the show altogether, did he?”

Mike, as most other boys of his age would have been, was profoundly ignorant as to the details by which his father’s money had been, or was being, made.  He only knew vaguely that the source of revenue had something to do with the Argentine.  His brother Joe had been born in Buenos Ayres; and once, three years ago, his father had gone over there for a visit, presumably on business.  All these things seemed to show that Mr. Jackson senior was a useful man to have about if you wanted a job in that Eldorado, the Argentine Republic.

As a matter of fact, Mike’s father owned vast tracts of land up country, where countless sheep lived and had their being.  He had long retired from active superintendence of his estate.  Like Mr. Spenlow, he had a partner, a stout fellow with the work-taint highly developed, who asked nothing better than to be left in charge.  So Mr. Jackson had returned to the home of his fathers, glad to be there again.  But he still had a decided voice in the ordering of affairs on the ranches, and Mike was going to the fountain-head of things when he wrote to his father that night, putting forward Wyatt’s claims to attention and ability to perform any sort of job with which he might be presented.

The reflection that he had done all that could be done tended to console him for the non-appearance of Wyatt either that night or next morning—­a non-appearance which was due to the simple fact that he passed that night in a bed in Mr. Wain’s dressing-room, the door of which that cautious pedagogue, who believed in taking no chances, locked from the outside on retiring to rest.

CHAPTER XXVII THE RIPTON MATCH

Mike got an answer from his father on the morning of the Ripton match.  A letter from Wyatt also lay on his plate when he came down to breakfast.

Mr. Jackson’s letter was short, but to the point.  He said he would go and see Wyatt early in the next week.  He added that being expelled from a public school was not the only qualification for success as a sheep-farmer, but that, if Mike’s friend added to this a general intelligence and amiability, and a skill for picking off cats with an air-pistol and bull’s-eyes with a Lee-Enfield, there was no reason why something should not be done for him.  In any case he would buy him a lunch, so that Wyatt would extract at least some profit from his visit.  He said that he hoped something could be managed.  It was a pity that a boy accustomed to shoot cats should be condemned for the rest of his life to shoot nothing more exciting than his cuffs.