Mike at Wrykyn (10 page)

“Thank
them,” said Mr. Spence, “most kindly. They’ve done us well.”

The
school had not gone up the river. They had marched in a solid body, with the
school band at their head playing Sousa, in the direction of Worfield, a market
town of some importance, distant about five miles. Of what they did and what
the natives thought of it all, no very distinct records remain. The thing is a
tradition on the countryside now, an event colossal and heroic, to be talked
about in the tap-room of the village inn during the long winter evenings. The
papers got hold of it, but were curiously misled as to the mature of the
demonstration. This was the fault of the reporter on the staff of the
Worfield
Intelligencer and Farmers’ Guide,
who saw in the thing a legitimate “march-out,”
and, questioning a straggler as to the reason for the expedition and gathering
foggily that the restoration to health of the Eminent Person was at the bottom
of it, said so in his paper. And two days later, at about the time when
Retribution had got seriously to work, the
Daily Mail
reprinted the
account, with comments and elaborations, and headed it “Loyal Schoolboys.” The
writer said that great credit was due to the headmaster of Wrykyn for his
ingenuity in devising and organizing so novel a thanksgiving celebration. And
there was the usual conversation between “a rosy-cheeked lad of some sixteen
summers” and “our representative,” in which the rosy-cheeked one spoke most
kindly of the headmaster, who seemed to be a warm personal friend of his.

The
remarkable thing about the Great Picnic was its orderliness. Considering that
five hundred and fifty boys were ranging the country in a compact mass, there
was wonderfully little damage done to property. Wyatt’s genius did not stop
short at organizing the march. In addition, he arranged a system of officers
which effectually controlled the animal spirits of the rank and file. The
prompt and decisive way in which rioters were dealt with during the earlier
stages of the business proved a wholesome lesson to others who would have
wished to have gone and dome likewise. A spirit of martial law reigned over the
Great Picnic. And towards the end of the day fatigue kept the rowdy-minded
quiet.

At
Worfield the expedition lunched. It was not a market day, fortunately, or the
confusion in the narrow streets would have been hopeless. On ordinary days
Worfield was more or less deserted. It is astonishing that the resources of the
little town were equal to satisfying the needs of the picnickers. They
descended on the place like an army of locusts.

Wyatt,
as generalissimo of the expedition, walked into the Grasshopper and Ant, the
leading inn of the town.

“Anything
I can do for you, sir?” inquired the landlord politely.

“Yes,
please,” said Wyatt, “I want lunch for five hundred and fifty.”

That
was the supreme moment in mine host’s life. It was his big subject of
conversation ever afterwards. He always told that as his best story, and he
always ended with the words, “You could ha’ knocked me down with a feather!”

The
first shock over, the staff of the Grasshopper and Ant bustled about. Other
inns were called upon for help. Private citizens rallied round with bread, jam,
and apples. And the army lunched sumptuously.

In the
early afternoon they rested, and as evening began to fall, the march home was
started.

At the school, met
practice was just coming to an end when, faintly, as the garrison of Lucknow
heard the first skirl of the pipes of the relieving force, those on the grounds
heard the strains of the school band and a murmur of many voices. Presently the
sounds grew more distinct, and up the Wrykyn road came marching the vanguard of
the column, singing the school song. They looked weary but cheerful.

As the
army drew near to the school, it melted away little by little, each house
claiming its representatives. At the school gates only a handful were left.

Bob
Jackson, walking back to Donaldson’s, met Wyatt at the gate, and gazed at him,
speechless.

“Hullo,”
said Wyatt, “been to the nets? I wonder if there’s time for a ginger-beer
before the shop shuts.”

CHAPTER
XII

MIKE GETS HIS CHANCE

THE headmaster was quite
bland and business-like about it all. There were no impassioned addresses from
the dais. He did not tell the school that it ought to be ashamed of itself. Nor
did he say that he should never have thought it of them. Prayers on the
Saturday morning were marked by no unusual features. There was, indeed, a stir
of excitement when he came to the edge of the dais, and cleared his throat as
a preliminary to making an announcement. Now for it, thought the school.

This
was the announcement:

“There
has been an outbreak of chicken-pox in the town. All streets except the High
Street will in consequence be out of bounds till further notice.”

He then
gave the nod of dismissal.

The
school streamed downstairs, marvelling.

The
less astute of the picnickers, unmindful of the homely proverb about hallooing
before leaving the wood, were openly exulting. It seemed plain to them that the
headmaster, baffled by the magnitude of the thing, had resolved to pursue the
safe course of ignoring it altogether. To lie low is always a shrewd piece of
tactics, and there seemed no reason why the Head should not have decided on it
in the present instance.

Neville-Smith
was among these premature rejoicers.

“I
say,” he chuckled, overtaking Wyatt in the cloisters, “this is all right, isn’t
it! He’s funked it. I thought he would. Finds the job too big to tackle.”

Wyatt
was damping.

“My
dear chap,” he said, “it’s not over yet by a long chalk. It hasn’t started
yet.”

“What
do you mean? Why didn’t he say anything about it in the Hall, then?”

“Why
should he? Have you ever had credit at a shop?”

“Of
course I have. What do you mean? Why?”

“Well,
they didn’t send in the bill right away. But it came all right.”

“Do you
think he’s going to do something then?”

“Rather.
You wait.”

Wyatt
was right.

Between
ten and eleven on Wednesdays and Saturdays old Bates, the school sergeant, used
to copy out the names of those who were in extra lesson, and post them outside
the school shop. The school inspected the list during the quarter to eleven
interval.

Today,
rushing to the shop for its midday bun, the school was aware of a vast sheet of
paper where usually there was but a small one. They surged round it. Buns were
forgotten. What was it?

Then
the meaning of the notice flashed upon them. The headmaster had acted. This
bloated document was the extra lesson list, swollen with names as a stream
swells with rain. It was a comprehensive document. It left out little.

“The
following boys will go in to extra lesson this afternoon and next Wednesday,”
it began. And “the following boys” numbered four hundred.

“Bates
must have got writer’s cramp,” said Clowes, as he read the huge scroll.

Wyatt met Mike after
school, as they went back to the house.

“Seen
the ‘extra’ list?” he remarked. “None of the kids are in it, I notice. Only the
bigger fellows. Rather a good thing. I’m glad you got off.”

“Thanks,”
said Mike, who was walking a little stiffly.

“I
don’t know what you call getting off. It seems to me you’re the chaps who got
off.”

“How do
you mean?”

“
We
got
tanned,” said Mike ruefully. “What!”

“Yes. Everybody
below the Upper Fourth.”

Wyatt
roared with laughter.

“By
Gad,” he said, “he is an old sportsman. I never saw such a man. He lowers all
records.”

“Glad
you think it funny. You wouldn’t have if you’d been me. I was one of the first
to get it. He was quite fresh.”

“Sting?”

“Should
think it did.”

“Well,
buck up. Don’t break down.”

“I’m
not breaking down,” said Mike indignantly.

“All
right. I thought you weren’t. Anyhow, you’re better off than I am.”

“An
extra’s nothing much,” said Mike.

“It is
when it happens to come on the same day as the M.C.C. match.”

“Oh, by
Jove! I forgot. That’s next Wednesday, isn’t it? You won’t be able to play!”

“No.”

“I say,
what rot!”

“It is,
rather. Still, nobody can say I didn’t ask for it. If one goes out of one’s way
to beg and beseech the Old Man to put one in extra, it would be a little rough
on him to curse him when he does it.”

“I
should be awfully sick, if it were me.”

“Well,
it isn’t you, so you’re all right. You’ll probably get my place in the team.”

Mike
smiled dutifully at what he supposed to be a humorous sally.

“Or,
rather, one of the places,” continued Wyatt, who seemed to be sufficiently in
earnest. “They’ll put a bowler in instead of me. Probably Druce. But there’ll
be several vacancies. Let’s see. Me. Adams. Ashe. Any more?

No,
that’s the lot. I should think they’d give you a chance.”

“You
needn’t joke,” said Mike uncomfortably. He had his day-dreams, like everybody
else, and they always took the form of playing for the first eleven (and, incidentally,
making a century in record time). To have to listen while the subject was
talked about lightly made him hot and prickly all over.

“I’m
not rotting,” said Wyatt seriously, “I’ll suggest it to Burgess tonight.”

“You
don’t think there’s any chance of it, really, do you?” said Mike awkwardly.

“I
don’t see why not? Buck up in the scratch game this afternoon. Fielding
especially. Burgess is simply mad on fielding. I don’t blame him either,
especially as he’s a bowler himself. He’d shove a man into the team like a
shot, whatever his batting was like, if his fielding was something extra
special. So you field like a demon this afternoon, and I’ll carry on the good
work in the evening.”

“I
say,” said Mike, overcome, “it’s awfully decent of you, Wyatt.”

Billy Burgess, captain of
Wrykyn cricket, was a genial giant, who seldom allowed himself to be ruffled.
The present was one of the rare occasions on which he permitted himself that
luxury. Wyatt found him in his study, shortly before lock-up, full of strange
oaths, like the soldier in Shakespeare.

“You
rotter! You rotter! You
worm!”
he observed crisply, as Wyatt appeared.

“Dear
old Billy!” said Wyatt. “Come on, give me a kiss, and let’s be friends.”

“You—!”

“William!
William!”

“If it
wasn’t illegal, I’d like to tie you and Ashe and that blackguard Adams up in a
big sack, and drop you into the river. And I’d jump on the sack first. What do
you mean by letting the team down like this? I know you were at the bottom of
it all.”

He
struggled into his shirt—he was changing after a bath—and his face popped
wrathfully out at the other end.

“I’m
awfully sorry, Bill,” said Wyatt. “The fact is, in the excitement of the moment
the M.C.C. match went clean out of my mind.”

“You
haven’t got a mind,” grumbled Burgess. “You’ve got a cheap brown paper
substitute. That’s your trouble.”

Wyatt
turned the conversation tactfully.

“How
many wickets did you get today?” he asked. “Eight. For a hundred and three. I
was on the spot. Young Jackson caught a hot one off me at third man. That kid’s
good.”

“Why
don’t you play him against the M.C.C. on Wednesday?” said Wyatt, jumping at
his opportunity.

“What?
Are you sitting on my left shoe?”

“No.
There it is in the corner.”

“Right
ho! … What were you saying?”

“Why
not play young Jackson for the first?”

“Too
small.”

“Rot.
‘What does size matter? Cricket isn’t rugger. Besides, he isn’t small. He’s as
tall as I am.”

“I
suppose he is. Dash, I’ve dropped my stud.” Wyatt waited patiently till he had
retrieved it. Then he returned to the attack.

“He’s
as good a bat as his brother, and a better field.”

“Old
Bob can’t field for toffee. I will say that for him. Dropped a sitter off me
today. Why the deuce fellows can’t hold catches when they drop slowly into
their mouths I’m hanged if I can see.”

“You
play him,” said Wyatt. “Just give him a trial. That kid’s a genius at cricket.
He’s going to be better than any of his brothers, even Joe. Give him a shot.”

Burgess
hesitated.

“You
know, it’s a bit risky,” he said. “With you three lunatics out of the team we
can’t afford to try many experiments. Better stick to the men at the top of
the second.”