Mike at Wrykyn (15 page)

Among
these was one Leather-Twigg, of Seymour’s, better known in criminal circles as Shoeblossom.

Shoeblossom
was a curious mixture of the Energetic Ragger and the Quiet Student. On a
Monday evening you would hear a hideous uproar proceeding from Seymour’s junior
day-room; and, going down with a swagger-stick to investigate, you would find a
tangled heap of squealing humanity on the floor, and at the bottom of the heap,
squealing louder than any two others, would be Shoeblossom, his collar burst
and blackened and his face apoplectically crimson. On the Tuesday afternoon,
strolling in some shady corner of the grounds you would come upon him lying on
his chest, deep in some work of fiction and resentful of interruption. On the
Wednesday morning he would be in receipt of four hundred lines from his
house-master for breaking three windows and a light bulb. Essentially a man of
moods, Shoeblossom.

It
happened about the date of the Geddington match that he took out from the
school library a copy of
The Iron Pirate,
and for the next day or two he
wandered about like a lost spirit trying to find a sequestered spot in which to
read it. His inability to hit on such a spot was rendered more irritating by
the fact that, to judge from the first few chapters (which he had managed to
get through during prep one night under the eye of a short-sighted master), the
book was obviously the last word in hot stuff. He tried the junior day-room,
but people threw cushions at him. He tried out of doors, and a ball hit from a
neighbouring net nearly scalped him. Anything in the nature of concentration
became impossible in these circumstances.

Then he
recollected that in a quiet backwater off the High Street there was a little
confectioner’s shop, where tea might be had at a reasonable sum, and, also,
what was more important, peace.

He made
his way there, and in the dingy back shop, all amongst the dust and
bluebottles, settled down to a thoughtful perusal of chapter six.

Upstairs,
at the same moment, the doctor was recommending that Master John George, the
son of the house, be kept warm and out of draughts and not permitted to scratch
himself, however necessary such an action might seem to him. In brief, he was
attending J. G. for chicken-pox.

Shoeblossom
came away, entering the High Street furtively, lest Authority should see him
Out of bounds, and returned to the school, where he went about his lawful
occasions as if there were no such thing as chicken-pox in the world.

But all
the while the microbe was getting in some unostentatious but clever work. A
week later Shoe-blossom began to feel queer. He had occasional headaches, and
found himself oppressed by a queer distaste for food. The professional advice
of Dr. Oakes, the school doctor, was called for, and Shoeblossom took up his
abode in the Infirmary, where he read
Punch,
sucked oranges, and thought
of life.

Two
days later Barry felt queer. He, too, disappeared from society.

Chicken-pox
is no respecter of persons. The next victim was Marsh, of the first eleven.
Marsh, who was top of the school averages. Where were his drives mow, his late
cuts that were wont to set the pavilion in a roar? Wrapped in a blanket, and
looking like the spotted marvel of a travelling circus, he was driven across to
the Infirmary in a car, and it became incumbent upon Burgess to select a
substitute for him.

And so
it came about that Mike soared once again into the ranks of the elect, and
found his name down in the team to play against the Incogniti.

CHAPTER
XVIII

BOB HAS NEWS TO IMPART

WRYKYN went down badly
before the Incogs. It generally  happens at least once in a school cricket
season that the team collapses hopelessly, for no apparent reason. Some schools
do it in nearly every match, but Wrykyn so far had been particularly fortunate
this year. They had only been beaten once, and that by a mere twenty-odd runs in
a hard-fought game. But on this particular day, against a not overwhelmingly
strong side, they failed miserably. The weather may have had something to do
with it, for rain fell early in the morning, and the school, batting first on
the drying wicket, found themselves considerably puzzled by a slow left-hander.
Morris and Berridge left with the score still short of ten, and after that the
rout began. Bob, going in fourth wicket, made a dozen, and Mike kept his end
up, and was not out eleven; but nobody except Wyatt, who hit out at everything
and knocked up thirty before he was stumped, did anything to distinguish
himself. The total was a hundred and seven, and the Incogniti, batting when the
wicket was easier, doubled this.

The
general opinion of the school after this match was that either Mike or Bob
would have to stand down from the team when it was definitely filled up, for
Neville-Smith, by showing up well with the ball against the Incogniti when the
others failed with the bat, made it practically certain that he would get one
of the two vacancies.

“If I
do,” he said to Wyatt, “there will be the biggest bust-up of modern times at my
place. My father is away for a holiday in Norway, and I’m alone, bar the
servants. And I can square them. Will you come?”

“Tea?”

“Tea!”
said Neville-Smith scornfully.

“Well,
what then?”

“Don’t
you ever have feeds in the dorms after lights-out in the houses?”

“Used
to when I was a kid. Too old now. Have to look after my digestion. I remember,
three years ago, when Wain’s won the rugger cup, we got up and fed at about two
in the morning. All sorts of luxuries. Sardines on sugar-biscuits. I’ve got the
taste in my mouth still. Do you remember Macpherson? Left a couple of years
ago. His food ran out, so he spread brown-boot polish on bread, and ate that. Got
through a slice, too. Wonderful chap! But what about this thing of yours? What
time’s it going to be?”

“Eleven
suit you?”

“All
right.”

“How
about getting out?”

“I’ll
do it as quickly as the team did today. I can’t say more than that.”

“You
were all right.”

“I’m an
exceptional sort of chap.”

“What
about the Jacksons?”

“It’s
going to be a close thing. If Bob’s fielding were to improve suddenly, he would
just do it. But young Mike’s all over him as a bat. In a year or two that
kid’ll be a marvel. He’s bound to get in next year, of course, so perhaps it
would be better if Bob got the place as it’s his last season. Still, one wants
the best man, of course.”

Mike avoided Bob as much
as possible during this anxious period; and he privately thought it rather
tactless of the latter when, meeting him one day outside Donaldson’s, he
insisted on his coming in and having some tea.

Mike
shuffled uncomfortably as his brother filled the kettle and lit the gas-ring.
It required more tact than he had at his disposal to carry off a situation like
this.

Bob,
being older, was more at his ease. He got tea ready, making desultory
conversation the while, as if there were no particular reason why either of
them should feel uncomfortable in the other’s presence. When he had finished,
he poured Mike out a cup, passed him the bread, and sat down.

“Not
seen much of each other lately, Mike, what?”

Mike
murmured unintelligibly through a mouthful of bread-and-jam.

“It’s
no good pretending it isn’t an awkward situation,” continued Bob, “because it
is. Beastly awkward.”

“Awful
bind, Father sending us to the same school.”

“Oh, I
don’t know. We’ve all been at Wrykyn. Pity to spoil the record. It’s your fault
for being such a young Infant Prodigy, and mine for not being able to field
like an ordinary human being.”

“You
get on much better in the deep.”

“Bit
better, yes. Liable at any moment to miss a sitter, though. Not that it matters
much really whether I do now.”

Mike
stared.

“What!
Why?”

“That’s
what I wanted to see you about. Has Burgess said anything to you yet?”

“No.
Why? What about?”

“Well,
I’ve a sort of idea our little race is over. I fancy you’ve won.”

“I’ve
not heard a word—”

“I
have. I’ll tell you what makes me think the thing’s settled. I was in the pay
just now, in the first room, trying to find a batting-glove I’d mislaid. There
was a copy of the
Wrykynian
lying on the mantelpiece, and I picked it up
and started reading it. So there wasn’t any noise to show anybody outside that
there was someone in the room. And then I heard Burgess and Spence jawing on
the steps. They thought the place was empty, of course. I couldn’t help hearing
what they said. The pay’s like a sounding-board. I heard every word. Spence
said, ‘Well, it’s about as difficult a problem as any captain of cricket at
Wrykyn has ever had to tackle.’ I had a sort of idea that old Billy liked to
boss things all on his own, but apparently he does consult Spence sometimes.
After all, he’s cricket-master, and that’s what he’s there for. Well, Billy
said, ‘I don’t know what to do. What do you think, sir?’ Spence said, ‘Well,
I’ll give you my opinion, Burgess, but don’t feel bound to act on it. I’m
simply saying what I think.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said old Bill, doing a big Young
Disciple with Wise Master act.
‘I
think M.,’ said Spence. ‘Decidedly M.
He’s a shade better than R. now, and in a year or two, of course, there’ll be
no comparison.”’

“Oh,
rot,” muttered Mike, wiping the sweat off his forehead. This was one of the
most harrowing interviews he had ever been through.

“Not at
all. Billy agreed with him. ‘That’s just what I think, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s
rough on Bob, but still—’ And then they walked down the steps. I waited a bit
to give them a good start, and then sheered off myself. And so home.”

Mike
looked at the floor, and said nothing.

There
was nothing much to
be
said.

“Well,
what I wanted to see you about was this,” resumed Bob. “I don’t propose to kiss
you or anything; but, on the other hand, don’t let’s go to the other extreme.
I’m not saying that it isn’t a bit of a brick just missing my cap like this,
but it would have been just as bad for you if you’d been the one dropped. It’s
the fortune of war. I don’t want you to go about feeling that you’ve blighted
my life, and so on, and dashing up side-streets to avoid me because you think
the sight of you will be painful. As it isn’t me, I’m jolly glad it’s you; and
I shall cadge a seat in the pavilion from you when you’re playing for England
at the Oval. Congratulate you.”

It was
the custom at Wrykyn, when you congratulated a man on getting colours, to shake
his hand. They shook hands.

“Thanks,
awfully, Bob,” said Mike. And after that there seemed to be nothing much to
talk about. So Mike edged out of the room, and tore across to Wain’s.

He was
sorry for Bob, but he would not have been human (which he certainly was) if the
triumph of having won through at last into the first eleven had not dwarfed
commiseration. It had been his one ambition, and now he had achieved it.

The
annoying part of the thing was that he had nobody to talk to about it. Until
the news was official he could not mention it to the common herd. It wouldn’t
do. The only possible confidant was Wyatt. And Wyatt was at Bisley, shooting
with the School Eight for the Ashburton. For bull’s-eyes as well as cats came
within Wyatt’s range as a marksman. Cricket took up too much of his time for
him to be captain of the Eight and the man chosen to shoot for the Spencer, as
he would otherwise almost certainly have been; but, even though short of
practice, he was well up in the team.

Until
he returned, Mike could tell nobody. And by the time he returned the notice
would probably be up in the Senior Block with the other cricket notices.

In this
fermenting state Mike went into the house.

The
list of the team to play for Wain’s
v.
Seymour’s on the following Monday
was on the board. As he passed it, a few words scrawled in pencil at the bottom
caught his eye.

“All
the above will turn out for house-fielding at six-thirty tomorrow morning.—W.
F.-S.”

“Oh,
dash it,” said Mike, “what rot! Why on earth can’t he leave us alone!”

For
getting up an hour before his customary time for rising was not among Mike’s
favourite pastimes. Still, orders were orders, he felt. It would have to be
done.

CHAPTER
XIX

MIKE GOES TO SLEEP AGAIN

MIKE was a stout supporter
of the view that sleep in large quantities is good for one. He belonged to the
school of thought which holds that a man becomes plain and pasty if deprived of
his full spell in bed. He aimed at the peach-bloom complexion.

To be
routed out of bed a clear hour before the proper time, even on a summer
morning, was not, therefore, a prospect that appealed to him.