Mike at Wrykyn (14 page)

“Well
hit, by George!” remarked Uncle John, as Trevor, who had gone in first wicket
for the second eleven, swept a half-volley to leg round to the bank where they
were sitting.

“That’s
Trevor,” said Mike. “Chap in Donaldson’s.

The
fellow at the other end is Wilkins. He’s in the School House. They look as if
they were getting set.

By
Jove,” he said enviously, “pretty good fun batting on a day like this.”

Uncle
John detected the envious note.

“I
suppose you would have been playing here but for your wrist?”

“No, I
was playing for the first.”

“For
the first? For the school! My word, Mike, I didn’t know that. No wonder you’re
feeling badly treated. Of course, I remember your father saying you had played
once for the school, and done well; but I thought that was only as a
substitute. I didn’t know you were a regular member of the team. What bad luck!
Will you get another chance?”

“Depends
on Bob.”

“Has
Bob got your place?”

Mike
nodded.

“If he
does well today, they’ll probably keep him in.”

“Isn’t
there room for both of you?”

“Such a
lot of old colours. There are only three vacancies, and Henfrey got one of
those a week ago. I expect they’ll give one of the other two to a bowler,
Neville-Smith, I should think, if he does well against Geddington. Then
there’ll be only the last place left.”

“Rather
awkward, that.”

“Still,
it’s Bob’s last year. I’ve got plenty of time. But I wish I could get in this
year.”

After
they had watched the match for an hour, Uncle John’s restless nature asserted
itself.

“Suppose
we go for a pull on the river mow?” he suggested.

They
got up.

“Let’s
just call at the shop,” said Mike. “There ought to be a telegram from
Geddington by this time. I wonder how Bob’s got on.”

Apparently
Bob had not had a chance yet of distinguishing himself. The telegram read, “Geddington
151 for four. Lunch.”

“Not
bad that,” said Mike. “But I believe they’re weak in bowling.”

They
walked down the road towards the school landing-stage.

“The
worst of a school,” said Uncle John, as he pulled upstream with strong,
unskilful stroke, “is that one isn’t allowed to smoke on the grounds. I badly
want a pipe. The next piece of shade that you see, sing out, and we’ll put in
there.”

“Pull
your left,” said Mike. “That willow’s what you want.”

Uncle
John looked over his shoulder, caught a crab, recovered himself, and steered
the boat in under the shade of the branches.

“Put
the rope over that stump. Can you manage with one hand? Here, let me— Done it?
Good. A-ah!”

He blew
a great cloud of smoke into the air, and sighed contentedly.

“I hope
you don’t smoke, Mike?”

“No.”

“Rotten
trick for a boy. When you get to my age you need it. Boys ought to be thinking
about keeping themselves fit and being good at games. Which reminds me. Let’s
have a look at the wrist.”

A
hunted expression came into Mike’s eyes.

“It’s
really nothing,” he began, but his uncle had already removed the sling, and was
examining the arm with the neat rapidity of one who has been brought up to such
things.

To Mike
it seemed as if everything in the world was standing still and waiting. He
could hear nothing but his own breathing.

His
uncle pressed the wrist gingerly once or twice, then gave it a little twist.

“That
hurt?” he asked.

“Ye—no,”
stammered Mike.

Uncle
John looked up sharply. Mike was crimson.

“What’s
the game?” inquired Uncle John.

Mike
said nothing.

There
was a twinkle in his uncle’s eyes.

“May as
well tell me. I won’t give you away. Why this wounded warrior business when
you’ve no more the matter with you than I have?”

Mike
hesitated.

“I only
wanted to get out of having to write this morning. There was an exam on.”

The
idea had occurred to him just before he spoke. It had struck him as neat and
plausible.

To
Uncle John it did not appear in the same light. “Do you always write with your
left hand? And if you had gone with the first eleven to Geddington, wouldn’t
that have got you out of your exam? Try again.”

When in
doubt, one may as well tell the truth. Mike told it.

“I
know. It wasn’t that, really. Only—”

“Well?”

“Oh,
well, dash it all then. Old Bob got me out of an awful row the day before
yesterday, and he seemed a bit sick at not playing for the first, so I thought
I might as well let him. That’s how it
was.
Look here, swear you won’t
tell him.”

Uncle
John was silent. Inwardly he was deciding that the five shillings which he had
intended to bestow on Mike on his departure should become a pound. (This, it
may be mentioned as an interesting biographical fact, was the only occasion in
his life on which Mike earned money at the rate of fifteen shillings a
half-minute.)

“Swear
you won’t tell him. He’d be most frightfully sick if he knew.”

“I
won’t tell him.”

Conversation
dwindled to vanishing-point. Uncle John smoked on in weighty silence, while
Mike, staring up at the blue sky through the branches of the willow, let his
mind wander to Geddington, where his fate was even now being sealed. How had
the school got on? What had Bob done? If he made about twenty, would they give
him his cap? Supposing …

A faint
snore from Uncle John broke in on his meditations. Then there was a clatter as
a briar pipe dropped on to the floor of the boat, and his uncle sat up, gaping.

“Jove,
I was nearly asleep. What’s the time? Just on six? Didn’t know it was so late.”

“I
ought to be getting back soon, I think. Lock-up’s at half-past.”

“Up
with the anchor, then. You can tackle that rope with two hands now, eh? We are
not observed. Don’t fall overboard. I’m going to shove her off.”

“There’ll
be another telegram, I should think,” said Mike, as they reached the school
gates.

“Shall
we go and look?”

They
walked to the shop.

A
second piece of grey paper had been pinned up under the first. Mike pushed his
way through the crowd. It was a longer message this time.

It ran
as follows:

“Geddington
247 (Burgess six wickets, Neville-Smith four). Wrykyn 270 for nine (Berridge
86, Marsh 58, Jackson 48).”

Mike
worked his way back through the throng, and rejoined his uncle.

“Well?”
said Uncle John.

“We
won.”

He
paused for a moment.

“Bob
made forty-eight,” he added carelessly.

Uncle
John felt in his pocket, and silently slid a pound into Mike’s hand.

It was
the only possible reply.

CHAPTER
XVII

ANOTHER VACANCY

WYATT got back late that
night, arriving at the dormitory as Mike was going to bed.

“By
Jove, I’m done,” he said. “It was simply baking at Geddington. And I came back
in a carriage with Neville-Smith and Ellerby, and they ragged the whole time. I
wanted to go to sleep, only they wouldn’t let me. Old Smith was awfully bucked
because he’d taken four wickets. I should think he’d go off his nut if he took
eight ever. He was singing comic songs when he wasn’t trying to put Ellerby
under the seat. How’s your wrist?”

“Oh,
better, thanks.”

Wyatt
began to undress.

“Any
colours?” asked Mike after a pause. First eleven colours were generally given
in the pavilion after a match or on the journey home.

“No. Only
one or two thirds. Jenkins and Clephane, and another chap, can’t remember who.
No first, though.”

“What
was Bob’s innings like?”

“Not
bad. A bit lucky. He ought to have been out before he’d scored, and he was out
when he’d made about sixteen, only the umpire didn’t seem to know the l.b.w.
rule. Never saw a clearer case in my life. I was in at the other end. Bit
rotten for the Geddington chaps. Just lost them the match. Their umpire, too.
Bit of luck for Bob. He didn’t give the ghost of a chance after that.”

“I
should have thought they’d have given him his colours.”

“Most
captains would have done, only Burgess is so keen on fielding that he rather
keeps off it.”

“Why,
did he field badly?”

“Rottenly.
And the man always will choose Billy’s bowling to drop catches off. And Billy
would cut his rich uncle from Australia if he kept on dropping them off him.
Bob’s fielding’s perfectly sinful. He was pretty bad at the beginning of the
season, but now he’s got so nervous that he’s a dozen times worse. He turns a
delicate green when he sees a catch coming. He let their best man off twice in
one over, off Billy, today; and the chap went on and made a hundred odd. Ripping
innings bar those two chances. I hear he’s got an average of eighty in school
matches this season. Beastly man to bowl to. Knocked me off in half a dozen
overs. And, when he does give a couple of easy chances, Bob puts them both on
the floor. Billy wouldn’t have given him his cap after the match if he’d made a
hundred. Bob’s the sort of man who wouldn’t catch a ball if you handed it to
him on a plate, with watercress round it.”

Burgess,
reviewing the match that night, as he lay awake in his cubicle, had come to
much the same conclusion. He was very fond of Bob, but two missed catches in
one over was straining the bonds of human affection too far. There would have been
serious trouble between David and Jonathan if either had persisted in dropping
catches off the other’s bowling. He writhed in bed as he remembered the second
of the two chances which the wretched Bob had refused. The scene was indelibly
printed on his mind. chap had got a late cut which he fancied rather. With
great guile he had fed this late cut. Sent down a couple which he put to the
boundary. Then fired a third much faster and a bit shorter. Chap had a go at
it, just as he had expected: and he felt that life was a good thing after all
when the ball just touched the corner of the bat and flew into Bob’s hands. And
Bob dropped it!

The
memory was too bitter. If he dwelt on it, he felt, he would get insomnia. So he
turned to pleasanter reflections: the yorker which had shattered the
second-wicket man, and the slow head-ball which had led to a big hitter being
caught on the boundary. Soothed by these memories, he fell asleep.

Next
morning he found himself in a softened frame of mind. He thought of Bob’s iniquities
with sorrow rather than wrath. He felt towards him much as a father feels
towards a prodigal son whom there is still a chance of reforming. He overtook
Bob on his way to chapel.

Directness
was always one of Burgess’s leading qualities. “Look here, Bob. About your
fielding. It’s simply awful.”

Bob was
all remorse.

“It’s
those beastly slip catches. I can’t time them.”

“That
one yesterday was right into your hands. Both of them were.”

“I
know. I’m frightfully sorry.”

“Well,
but I mean, why
can’t
you hold them? It’s no good being a good
bat—you’re that all right—if you’re going to give away runs in the field.”

“Do you
know, I believe I should do better in the deep. I could get time to watch them
there. I wish you’d give me a shot in the deep—for the second.”

“Second
be blowed! I want your batting in the first. Do you think you’d really do
better in the deep?”

“I’m
almost certain I should. I’ll practise like mad. Trevor’ll hit me up catches. I
hate the slips. I get in the dickens of a funk directly the bowler starts his
run now. I know that if a catch does come, I shall miss it. I’m certain the
deep would be much better.”

“All
right then. Try it.”

The
conversation turned to less pressing topics.

In the next two matches,
accordingly, Bob figured on the boundary, where he had not much to do except
throw the ball back to the bowler, and stop an occasional drive along the
carpet. The beauty of fielding in the deep is that no unpleasant surprises can
be sprung upon one. There is just that moment or two for collecting one’s
thoughts which makes the whole difference. Bob, as he stood regarding the game
from afar, found his self-confidence returning slowly, drop by drop.

As for
Mike, he played for the second, and hoped for the day.

His opportunity came at
last. It will be remembered that on the morning after the Great Picnic the
headmaster made an announcement in the Hall to the effect that, owing to an
outbreak of chicken-pox in the town, all streets except the High Street would
be out of bounds. This did not affect the bulk of the school, for most of the
shops to which anyone ever thought of going were in the High Street. But there
were certain inquiring minds who liked to ferret about in odd corners.