Mike by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (dar e dil novel online reading .TXT) 📖

CHAPTER XVI

AN EXPERT EXAMINATION

 

Mike’s Uncle John was a wanderer on the face of the earth. He had been

an army surgeon in the days of his youth, and, after an adventurous

career, mainly in Afghanistan, had inherited enough money to keep him

in comfort for the rest of his life. He had thereupon left the

service, and now spent most of his time flitting from one spot of

Europe to another. He had been dashing up to Scotland on the day when

Mike first became a Wrykynian, but a few weeks in an uncomfortable

hotel in Skye and a few days in a comfortable one in Edinburgh had

left him with the impression that he had now seen all that there was

to be seen in North Britain and might reasonably shift his camp again.

 

Coming south, he had looked in on Mike’s people for a brief space,

and, at the request of Mike’s mother, took the early express to Wrykyn

in order to pay a visit of inspection.

 

His telegram arrived during morning school. Mike went down to the

station to meet him after lunch.

 

Uncle John took command of the situation at once.

 

“School playing anybody to-day, Mike? I want to see a match.”

 

“They’re playing Geddington. Only it’s away. There’s a second match

on.”

 

“Why aren’t you—Hullo, I didn’t see. What have you been doing to

yourself?”

 

“Crocked my wrist a bit. It’s nothing much.”

 

“How did you do that?”

 

“Slipped while I was changing after cricket.”

 

“Hurt?”

 

“Not much, thanks.”

 

“Doctor seen it?”

 

“No. But it’s really nothing. Be all right by Monday.”

 

“H’m. Somebody ought to look at it. I’ll have a look later on.”

 

Mike did not appear to relish this prospect.

 

“It isn’t anything, Uncle John, really. It doesn’t matter a bit.”

 

“Never mind. It won’t do any harm having somebody examine it who knows

a bit about these things. Now, what shall we do. Go on the river?”

 

“I shouldn’t be able to steer.”

 

“I could manage about that. Still, I think I should like to see the

place first. Your mother’s sure to ask me if you showed me round. It’s

like going over the stables when you’re stopping at a country-house.

Got to be done, and better do it as soon as possible.”

 

It is never very interesting playing the part of showman at school.

Both Mike and his uncle were inclined to scamp the business. Mike

pointed out the various landmarks without much enthusiasm—it is only

after one has left a few years that the school buildings take to

themselves romance—and Uncle John said, “Ah yes, I see. Very nice,”

two or three times in an absent voice; and they passed on to the

cricket field, where the second eleven were playing a neighbouring

engineering school. It was a glorious day. The sun had never seemed to

Mike so bright or the grass so green. It was one of those days when

the ball looks like a large vermilion-coloured football as it leaves

the bowler’s hand. If ever there was a day when it seemed to Mike that

a century would have been a certainty, it was this Saturday. A sudden,

bitter realisation of all he had given up swept over him, but he

choked the feeling down. The thing was done, and it was no good

brooding over the might-have-beens now. Still—And the Geddington

ground was supposed to be one of the easiest scoring grounds of all

the public schools!

 

“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 to-day, 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 now?” 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 up-stream 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 sovereign. (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.