Mike

Wyatt’s letter was longer.  It might have been published under the title “My First Day in a Bank, by a Beginner.”  His advent had apparently caused little sensation.  He had first had a brief conversation with the manager, which had run as follows:

“Mr. Wyatt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“H’m ...  Sportsman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cricketer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Play football?”

“Yes, sir.”

“H’m ...  Racquets?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, sir.”

“H’m ...  Well, you won’t get any more of it now.”

After which a Mr. Blenkinsop had led him up to a vast ledger, in which he was to inscribe the addresses of all out-going letters.  These letters he would then stamp, and subsequently take in bundles to the post office.  Once a week he would be required to buy stamps.  “If I were one of those Napoleons of Finance,” wrote Wyatt, “I should cook the accounts, I suppose, and embezzle stamps to an incredible amount.  But it doesn’t seem in my line.  I’m afraid I wasn’t cut out for a business career.  Still, I have stamped this letter at the expense of the office, and entered it up under the heading ‘Sundries,’ which is a sort of start.  Look out for an article in the Wrykynian, ’Hints for Young Criminals, by J. Wyatt, champion catch-as-catch-can stamp-stealer of the British Isles.’  So long.  I suppose you are playing against Ripton, now that the world of commerce has found that it can’t get on without me.  Mind you make a century, and then perhaps Burgess’ll give you your first after all.  There were twelve colours given three years ago, because one chap left at half-term and the man who played instead of him came off against Ripton.”

This had occurred to Mike independently.  The Ripton match was a special event, and the man who performed any outstanding feat against that school was treated as a sort of Horatius.  Honours were heaped upon him.  If he could only make a century! or even fifty.  Even twenty, if it got the school out of a tight place.  He was as nervous on the Saturday morning as he had been on the morning of the M.C.C. match.  It was Victory or Westminster Abbey now.  To do only averagely well, to be among the ruck, would be as useless as not playing at all, as far as his chance of his first was concerned.

It was evident to those who woke early on the Saturday morning that this Ripton match was not likely to end in a draw.  During the Friday rain had fallen almost incessantly in a steady drizzle.  It had stopped late at night; and at six in the morning there was every prospect of another hot day.  There was that feeling in the air which shows that the sun is trying to get through the clouds.  The sky was a dull grey at breakfast time, except where a flush of deeper colour gave a hint of the sun.  It was a day on which to win the toss, and go in first.  At eleven-thirty, when the match was timed to begin, the wicket would be too wet to be difficult.  Runs would come easily till the sun came out and began to dry the ground.  When that happened there would be trouble for the side that was batting.

Burgess, inspecting the wicket with Mr. Spence during the quarter to eleven interval, was not slow to recognise this fact.

“I should win the toss to-day, if I were you, Burgess,” said Mr. Spence.

“Just what I was thinking, sir.”

“That wicket’s going to get nasty after lunch, if the sun comes out.  A regular Rhodes wicket it’s going to be.”

“I wish we had Rhodes,” said Burgess.  “Or even Wyatt.  It would just suit him, this.”

Mr. Spence, as a member of the staff, was not going to be drawn into discussing Wyatt and his premature departure, so he diverted the conversation on to the subject of the general aspect of the school’s attack.

“Who will go on first with you, Burgess?”

“Who do you think, sir?  Ellerby?  It might be his wicket.”

Ellerby bowled medium inclining to slow.  On a pitch that suited him he was apt to turn from leg and get people out caught at the wicket or short slip.

“Certainly, Ellerby.  This end, I think.  The other’s yours, though I’m afraid you’ll have a poor time bowling fast to-day.  Even with plenty of sawdust I doubt if it will be possible to get a decent foothold till after lunch.”

“I must win the toss,” said Burgess.  “It’s a nuisance too, about our batting.  Marsh will probably be dead out of form after being in the Infirmary so long.  If he’d had a chance of getting a bit of practice yesterday, it might have been all right.”

“That rain will have a lot to answer for if we lose.  On a dry, hard wicket I’m certain we should beat them four times out of six.  I was talking to a man who played against them for the Nomads.  He said that on a true wicket there was not a great deal of sting in their bowling, but that they’ve got a slow leg-break man who might be dangerous on a day like this.  A boy called de Freece.  I don’t know of him.  He wasn’t in the team last year.”