Mike at Wrykyn (24 page)

But the
sixth was of a different kind. Faster than the rest and of a perfect length, it
all but got through Mike’s defence. As it was, he stopped it. But he did not
score. The umpire called “Over!” and there was Grant at the batting end, with
de Freece smiling pleasantly as he walked back to begin his run with the
comfortable reflection that at last he had got somebody except Mike to bowl at.

That
over was an experience Mike never forgot. 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 recognize 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 magnificently.”

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 Aires 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 Aires,” 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 Aires.”

“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.

“No. Only
potted him in the leg. This is what he says. First page is mostly about the
Ripton match and so on. Here you are. ‘I’m dictating this to a sportsman of the
name of Danvers, a good chap who can’t help being ugly, so excuse bad writing.
The fact is we’ve been having a bust-up here, and I’ve come out of it with a bullet
in the shoulder, which has crocked me for the time being. It happened like
this. An ass of a Gaucho had gone into the town and got jolly tight, and coming
back, he wanted to ride through our place. The old woman who keeps the lodge
wouldn’t have it at any price. So this rotter, instead of shifting off,
proceeded to cut the fence, and go through that way. All the farms out here
have their boundaries marked by wire fences, and it is supposed to be a deadly
sin to cut these. Well, the lodge-keeper’s son dashed off in search of help. A
chap called Chester, an Old Wykehamist, and I were dipping sheep close by, so
he came to us and told us what had happened. We nipped on to a couple of
horses, pulled out our revolvers, and tooled after him. After a bit we overtook
him, and that’s when the trouble began. The johnny had dismounted when we
arrived. I thought he was simply tightening his horse’s girths. What he was
really doing was getting a steady aim at us with his revolver. He fired as we
came up, and dropped poor old Chester. I thought he was killed at first, but it
turned out it was only his leg. I got going then. I emptied all the six
chambers of my revolver, and missed him clean every time. In the meantime he
got me in the right shoulder. Hurt like sin afterwards, though it was only a
sort of dull shock at the moment. The next item of the programme was a forward
move in force on the part of the enemy. The man had got his knife out now—why
he didn’t shoot again I don’t know—and toddled over in our direction to finish
us off. Chester was unconscious, and it was any money on the Gaucho, when I
happened to catch sight of Chester’s pistol, which had fallen just by where I
came down. I picked it up, and loosed off. Missed the first shot, but got him
with the second in the ankle at about two yards; and
his
day’s work was
done. That’s the painful story. Danvers says he’s getting writer’s cramp, so I
shall have to stop….”’

“By Jove!” said Mike.

“What a
dreadful thing!” said Mrs. Jackson.

“Anyhow,
it was practically a bushranger,” said Phyllis.

“I told
you it was a duel, and so it was,” said Marjory.

“What a
terrible experience for the poor boy!” said Mrs. Jackson.

“Much
better than being in a beastly bank,” said Mike, summing up. “I’m glad he’s
having such a ripping time. It must be almost as decent as Wrykyn out there….
I say, what’s under that dish?”