Mike

Grant pursued the Fabian policy of keeping his bat almost immovable and trusting to luck.  Point and the slips crowded round.  Mid-off and mid-on moved half-way down the pitch.  Grant looked embarrassed, but determined.  For four balls he baffled the attack, though once nearly caught by point a yard from the wicket.  The fifth curled round his bat, and touched the off-stump.  A bail fell silently to the ground.

Devenish came in to take the last ball of the over.

It was an awe-inspiring moment.  A great stillness was over all the ground.  Mike’s knees trembled.  Devenish’s face was a delicate grey.

The only person unmoved seemed to be de Freece.  His smile was even more amiable than usual as he began his run.

The next moment the crisis was past.  The ball hit the very centre of Devenish’s bat, and rolled back down the pitch.

The school broke into one great howl of joy.  There were still seven runs between them and victory, but nobody appeared to recognise this fact as important.  Mike had got the bowling, and the bowling was not de Freece’s.

It seemed almost an anti-climax when a four to leg and two two’s through the slips settled the thing.

Devenish was caught and bowled in de Freece’s next over; but the Wrykyn total was one hundred and seventy-two.

“Good game,” said Maclaine, meeting Burgess in the pavilion.  “Who was the man who made all the runs?  How many, by the way?”

“Eighty-three.  It was young Jackson.  Brother of the other one.”

“That family!  How many more of them are you going to have here?”

“He’s the last.  I say, rough luck on de Freece.  He bowled rippingly.”

Politeness to a beaten foe caused Burgess to change his usual “not bad.”

“The funny part of it is,” continued he, “that young Jackson was only playing as a sub.”

“You’ve got a rum idea of what’s funny,” said Maclaine.

CHAPTER XXIX WYATT AGAIN

It was a morning in the middle of September.  The Jacksons were breakfasting.  Mr. Jackson was reading letters.  The rest, including Gladys Maud, whose finely chiselled features were gradually disappearing behind a mask of bread-and-milk, had settled down to serious work.  The usual catch-as-catch-can contest between Marjory and Phyllis for the jam (referee and time-keeper, Mrs. Jackson) had resulted, after both combatants had been cautioned by the referee, in a victory for Marjory, who had duly secured the stakes.  The hour being nine-fifteen, and the official time for breakfast nine o’clock, Mike’s place was still empty.

“I’ve had a letter from MacPherson,” said Mr. Jackson.

MacPherson was the vigorous and persevering gentleman, referred to in a previous chapter, who kept a fatherly eye on the Buenos Ayres sheep.

“He seems very satisfied with Mike’s friend Wyatt.  At the moment of writing Wyatt is apparently incapacitated owing to a bullet in the shoulder, but expects to be fit again shortly.  That young man seems to make things fairly lively wherever he is.  I don’t wonder he found a public school too restricted a sphere for his energies.”

“Has he been fighting a duel?” asked Marjory, interested.

“Bushrangers,” said Phyllis.

“There aren’t any bushrangers in Buenos Ayres,” said Ella.

“How do you know?” said Phyllis clinchingly.

“Bush-ray, bush-ray, bush-ray,” began Gladys Maud, conversationally, through the bread-and-milk; but was headed off.

“He gives no details.  Perhaps that letter on Mike’s plate supplies them.  I see it comes from Buenos Ayres.”

“I wish Mike would come and open it,” said Marjory.  “Shall I go and hurry him up?”

The missing member of the family entered as she spoke.

“Buck up, Mike,” she shouted.  “There’s a letter from Wyatt.  He’s been wounded in a duel.”

“With a bushranger,” added Phyllis.

“Bush-ray,” explained Gladys Maud.

“Is there?” said Mike.  “Sorry I’m late.”

He opened the letter and began to read.

“What does he say?” inquired Marjory.  “Who was the duel with?”

“How many bushrangers were there?” asked Phyllis.

Mike read on.

“Good old Wyatt!  He’s shot a man.”

“Killed him?” asked Marjory excitedly.