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his turn next.

 

“Two hundred and twenty-nine,” said Burgess, “and it’s ten past six.

No good trying for the runs now. Stick in,” he added to Mike. “That’s

all you’ve got to do.”

 

All!… Mike felt as if he was being strangled. His heart was racing

like the engines of a motor. He knew his teeth were chattering. He

wished he could stop them. What a time Bob was taking to get back to

the pavilion! He wanted to rush out, and get the thing over.

 

At last he arrived, and Mike, fumbling at a glove, tottered out into

the sunshine. He heard miles and miles away a sound of clapping, and a

thin, shrill noise as if somebody were screaming in the distance. As a

matter of fact, several members of his form and of the junior day-room

at Wain’s nearly burst themselves at that moment.

 

At the wickets, he felt better. Bob had fallen to the last ball of the

over, and Morris, standing ready for Saunders’s delivery, looked so

calm and certain of himself that it was impossible to feel entirely

without hope and self-confidence. Mike knew that Morris had made

ninety-eight, and he supposed that Morris knew that he was very near

his century; yet he seemed to be absolutely undisturbed. Mike drew

courage from his attitude.

 

Morris pushed the first ball away to leg. Mike would have liked to

have run two, but short leg had retrieved the ball as he reached the

crease.

 

The moment had come, the moment which he had experienced only in

dreams. And in the dreams he was always full of confidence, and

invariably hit a boundary. Sometimes a drive, sometimes a cut, but

always a boundary.

 

“To leg, sir,” said the umpire.

 

“Don’t be in a funk,” said a voice. “Play straight, and you can’t get

out.”

 

It was Joe, who had taken the gloves when the wicket-keeper went on to

bowl.

 

Mike grinned, wryly but gratefully.

 

Saunders was beginning his run. It was all so home-like that for a

moment Mike felt himself again. How often he had seen those two little

skips and the jump. It was like being in the paddock again, with

Marjory and the dogs waiting by the railings to fetch the ball if he

made a drive.

 

Saunders ran to the crease, and bowled.

 

Now, Saunders was a conscientious man, and, doubtless, bowled the very

best ball that he possibly could. On the other hand, it was Mike’s

first appearance for the school, and Saunders, besides being

conscientious, was undoubtedly kind-hearted. It is useless to

speculate as to whether he was trying to bowl his best that ball. If

so, he failed signally. It was a half-volley, just the right distance

away from the off-stump; the sort of ball Mike was wont to send nearly

through the net at home….

 

The next moment the dreams had come true. The umpire was signalling to

the scoring-box, the school was shouting, extra-cover was trotting to

the boundary to fetch the ball, and Mike was blushing and wondering

whether it was bad form to grin.

 

From that ball onwards all was for the best in this best of all

possible worlds. Saunders bowled no more half-volleys; but Mike

played everything that he did bowl. He met the lobs with a bat like

a barn-door. Even the departure of Morris, caught in the slips off

Saunders’s next over for a chanceless hundred and five, did not disturb

him. All nervousness had left him. He felt equal to the situation.

Burgess came in, and began to hit out as if he meant to knock off the

runs. The bowling became a shade loose. Twice he was given full tosses

to leg, which he hit to the terrace bank. Half-past six chimed, and two

hundred and fifty went up on the telegraph board. Burgess continued to

hit. Mike’s whole soul was concentrated on keeping up his wicket.

There was only Reeves to follow him, and Reeves was a victim to the

first straight ball. Burgess had to hit because it was the only game

he knew; but he himself must simply stay in.

 

The hands of the clock seemed to have stopped. Then suddenly he heard

the umpire say “Last over,” and he settled down to keep those six

balls out of his wicket.

 

The lob bowler had taken himself off, and the Oxford Authentic had

gone on, fast left-hand.

 

The first ball was short and wide of the off-stump. Mike let it alone.

Number two: yorker. Got him! Three: straight half-volley. Mike played

it back to the bowler. Four: beat him, and missed the wicket by an

inch. Five: another yorker. Down on it again in the old familiar way.

 

All was well. The match was a draw now whatever happened to him. He

hit out, almost at a venture, at the last ball, and mid-off, jumping,

just failed to reach it. It hummed over his head, and ran like a

streak along the turf and up the bank, and a great howl of delight

went up from the school as the umpire took off the bails.

 

Mike walked away from the wickets with Joe and the wicket-keeper.

 

“I’m sorry about your nose, Joe,” said the wicket-keeper in tones of

grave solicitude.

 

“What’s wrong with it?”

 

“At present,” said the wicket-keeper, “nothing. But in a few years I’m

afraid it’s going to be put badly out of joint.”

CHAPTER XIV

A SLIGHT IMBROGLIO

 

Mike got his third eleven colours after the M.C.C. match. As he had

made twenty-three not out in a crisis in a first eleven match, this

may not seem an excessive reward. But it was all that he expected. One

had to take the rungs of the ladder singly at Wrykyn. First one was

given one’s third eleven cap. That meant, “You are a promising man,

and we have our eye on you.” Then came the second colours. They might

mean anything from “Well, here you are. You won’t get any higher, so

you may as well have the thing now,” to “This is just to show that we

still have our eye on you.”

 

Mike was a certainty now for the second. But it needed more than one

performance to secure the first cap.

 

“I told you so,” said Wyatt, naturally, to Burgess after the match.

 

“He’s not bad,” said Burgess. “I’ll give him another shot.”

 

But Burgess, as has been pointed out, was not a person who ever became

gushing with enthusiasm.

 

*

 

So Wilkins, of the School House, who had played twice for the first

eleven, dropped down into the second, as many a good man had done

before him, and Mike got his place in the next match, against the

Gentlemen of the County. Unfortunately for him, the visiting team,

however gentlemanly, were not brilliant cricketers, at any rate as far

as bowling was concerned. The school won the toss, went in first, and

made three hundred and sixteen for five wickets, Morris making another

placid century. The innings was declared closed before Mike had a

chance of distinguishing himself. In an innings which lasted for

one over he made two runs, not out; and had to console himself for

the cutting short of his performance by the fact that his average

for the school was still infinity. Bob, who was one of those lucky

enough to have an unabridged innings, did better in this match, making

twenty-five. But with Morris making a hundred and seventeen, and

Berridge, Ellerby, and Marsh all passing the half-century, this score

did not show up excessively.

 

We now come to what was practically a turning-point in Mike’s career

at Wrykyn. There is no doubt that his meteor-like flights at cricket

had an unsettling effect on him. He was enjoying life amazingly, and,

as is not uncommon with the prosperous, he waxed fat and kicked.

Fortunately for him—though he did not look upon it in that light at

the time—he kicked the one person it was most imprudent to kick. The

person he selected was Firby-Smith. With anybody else the thing might

have blown over, to the detriment of Mike’s character; but Firby-Smith,

having the most tender affection for his dignity, made a fuss.

 

It happened in this way. The immediate cause of the disturbance was a

remark of Mike’s, but the indirect cause was the unbearably

patronising manner which the head of Wain’s chose to adopt towards

him. The fact that he was playing for the school seemed to make no

difference at all. Firby-Smith continued to address Mike merely as the

small boy.

 

The following, verbatim, was the tactful speech which he

addressed to him on the evening of the M.C.C. match, having summoned

him to his study for the purpose.

 

“Well,” he said, “you played a very decent innings this afternoon, and

I suppose you’re frightfully pleased with yourself, eh? Well, mind you

don’t go getting swelled head. See? That’s all. Run along.”

 

Mike departed, bursting with fury.

 

The next link in the chain was forged a week after the Gentlemen of

the County match. House matches had begun, and Wain’s were playing

Appleby’s. Appleby’s made a hundred and fifty odd, shaping badly for

the most part against Wyatt’s slows. Then Wain’s opened their innings.

The Gazeka, as head of the house, was captain of the side, and he and

Wyatt went in first. Wyatt made a few mighty hits, and was then caught

at cover. Mike went in first wicket.

 

For some ten minutes all was peace. Firby-Smith scratched away at his

end, getting here and there a single and now and then a two, and Mike

settled down at once to play what he felt was going to be the innings

of a lifetime. Appleby’s bowling was on the feeble side, with Raikes,

of the third eleven, as the star, supported by some small change. Mike

pounded it vigorously. To one who had been brought up on Saunders,

Raikes possessed few subtleties. He had made seventeen, and was

thoroughly set, when the Gazeka, who had the bowling, hit one in the

direction of cover-point. With a certain type of batsman a single is a

thing to take big risks for. And the Gazeka badly wanted that single.

 

“Come on,” he shouted, prancing down the pitch.

 

Mike, who had remained in his crease with the idea that nobody even

moderately sane would attempt a run for a hit like that, moved forward

in a startled and irresolute manner. Firby-Smith arrived, shouting

“Run!” and, cover having thrown the ball in, the wicket-keeper removed

the bails.

 

These are solemn moments.

 

The only possible way of smoothing over an episode of this kind is for

the guilty man to grovel.

 

Firby-Smith did not grovel.

 

“Easy run there, you know,” he said reprovingly.

 

The world swam before Mike’s eyes. Through the red mist he could see

Firby-Smith’s face. The sun glinted on his rather prominent teeth. To

Mike’s distorted vision it seemed that the criminal was amused.

 

“Don’t laugh, you grinning ape!” he cried. “It isn’t funny.”

 

[Illustration: “DON’T LAUGH, YOU GRINNING APE”]

 

He then made for the trees where the rest of the team were sitting.

 

Now Firby-Smith not only possessed rather prominent teeth; he was also

sensitive on the subject. Mike’s shaft sank in deeply. The fact that

emotion caused him to swipe at a straight half-volley, miss it, and be

bowled next ball made the wound rankle.

 

He avoided Mike on his return to the trees. And Mike, feeling now a

little apprehensive, avoided him.

 

The Gazeka brooded apart for the

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