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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 of modern

times at my place. My pater 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 footer

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 to-day. 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 Etna. 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 rot the pater 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 pav. 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 some

one 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 pav.‘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 6.30 to-morrow

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.

 

When he woke it seemed even less attractive than it had done when

he went to sleep. He had banged his head on the pillow six times

overnight, and this silent alarm proved effective, as it always

does. Reaching out a hand for his watch, he found that it was five

minutes past six.

 

This was to the good. He could manage another quarter of an hour

between the sheets. It would only take him ten minutes to wash and get

into his flannels.

 

He took his quarter of an hour, and a little more. He woke from a sort

of doze to find that it was twenty-five past.

 

Man’s inability to get out of bed in the morning is a curious thing.

One may reason with oneself clearly and forcibly without the slightest

effect. One knows that delay means inconvenience. Perhaps it may spoil

one’s whole day. And one also knows that a single resolute heave will

do the trick. But logic is of no use. One simply lies there.

 

Mike thought he would take another minute.

 

And during that minute there floated into his mind the question, Who

was Firby-Smith? That was the point. Who was he, after all?

 

This started quite a new train of thought. Previously Mike had firmly

intended to get up—some time. Now he began to waver.

 

The more he considered the Gazeka’s insignificance and futility and

his own magnificence, the more outrageous did it seem that he should

be dragged out of bed to please Firby-Smith’s vapid mind. Here was he,

about to receive his first eleven colours on this very day probably,

being ordered about, inconvenienced—in short, put upon by a worm who

had only just scraped into the third.

 

Was this right, he asked himself. Was this proper?

 

And the hands of the watch moved round to twenty to.

 

What was the matter with his fielding? It was all right. Make

the rest of the team fag about, yes. But not a chap who, dash it all,

had got his first for fielding!

 

It was with almost a feeling of self-righteousness that Mike turned

over on his side and went to sleep again.

 

And outside in the cricket-field, the massive mind of the Gazeka was

filled with rage, as it was gradually borne in upon him that this was

not a question of mere lateness—which, he felt, would be bad enough,

for when he said six-thirty he meant six-thirty—but of actual

desertion. It was time, he said to himself,

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