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>Mike looked round the table. It was a great moment. He rose to it with

the utmost dignity.

 

“Good,” he said. “I say, what’s under that dish?”

 

*

 

After breakfast, Mike and Marjory went off together to the meadow at

the end of the garden. Saunders, the professional, assisted by the

gardener’s boy, was engaged in putting up the net. Mr. Jackson

believed in private coaching; and every spring since Joe, the eldest

of the family, had been able to use a bat a man had come down from the

Oval to teach him the best way to do so. Each of the boys in turn had

passed from spectators to active participants in the net practice in

the meadow. For several years now Saunders had been the chosen man,

and his attitude towards the Jacksons was that of the Faithful Old

Retainer in melodrama. Mike was his special favourite. He felt that in

him he had material of the finest order to work upon. There was

nothing the matter with Bob. In Bob he would turn out a good, sound

article. Bob would be a Blue in his third or fourth year, and probably

a creditable performer among the rank and file of a county team later

on. But he was not a cricket genius, like Mike. Saunders would lie

awake at night sometimes thinking of the possibilities that were in

Mike. The strength could only come with years, but the style was there

already. Joe’s style, with improvements.

 

Mike put on his pads; and Marjory walked with the professional to the

bowling crease.

 

“Mike’s going to Wrykyn next term, Saunders,” she said. “All the boys

were there, you know. So was father, ages ago.”

 

“Is he, miss? I was thinking he would be soon.”

 

“Do you think he’ll get into the school team?”

 

“School team, miss! Master Mike get into a school team! He’ll be

playing for England in another eight years. That’s what he’ll be

playing for.”

 

“Yes, but I meant next term. It would be a record if he did. Even Joe

only got in after he’d been at school two years. Don’t you think he

might, Saunders? He’s awfully good, isn’t he? He’s better than Bob,

isn’t he? And Bob’s almost certain to get in this term.”

 

Saunders looked a little doubtful.

 

“Next term!” he said. “Well, you see, miss, it’s this way. It’s all

there, in a manner of speaking, with Master Mike. He’s got as much

style as Mr. Joe’s got, every bit. The whole thing is, you see, miss,

you get these young gentlemen of eighteen, and nineteen perhaps, and

it stands to reason they’re stronger. There’s a young gentleman,

perhaps, doesn’t know as much about what I call real playing as Master

Mike’s forgotten; but then he can hit ‘em harder when he does hit ‘em,

and that’s where the runs come in. They aren’t going to play Master

Mike because he’ll be in the England team when he leaves school.

They’ll give the cap to somebody that can make a few then and there.”

 

“But Mike’s jolly strong.”

 

“Ah, I’m not saying it mightn’t be, miss. I was only saying don’t

count on it, so you won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t happen. It’s

quite likely that it will, only all I say is don’t count on it. I only

hope that they won’t knock all the style out of him before they’re

done with him. You know these school professionals, miss.”

 

“No, I don’t, Saunders. What are they like?”

 

“Well, there’s too much of the come-right-out-at-everything about ‘em

for my taste. Seem to think playing forward the alpha and omugger of

batting. They’ll make him pat balls back to the bowler which he’d cut

for twos and threes if he was left to himself. Still, we’ll hope for

the best, miss. Ready, Master Mike? Play.”

 

As Saunders had said, it was all there. Of Mike’s style there could be

no doubt. To-day, too, he was playing more strongly than usual.

Marjory had to run to the end of the meadow to fetch one straight

drive. “He hit that hard enough, didn’t he, Saunders?” she asked, as

she returned the ball.

 

“If he could keep on doing ones like that, miss,” said the

professional, “they’d have him in the team before you could say

knife.”

 

Marjory sat down again beside the net, and watched more hopefully.

CHAPTER II

THE JOURNEY DOWN

 

The seeing off of Mike on the last day of the holidays was an imposing

spectacle, a sort of pageant. Going to a public school, especially at

the beginning of the summer term, is no great hardship, more

particularly when the departing hero has a brother on the verge of the

school eleven and three other brothers playing for counties; and Mike

seemed in no way disturbed by the prospect. Mothers, however, to the

end of time will foster a secret fear that their sons will be bullied

at a big school, and Mrs. Jackson’s anxious look lent a fine solemnity

to the proceedings.

 

And as Marjory, Phyllis, and Ella invariably broke down when the time

of separation arrived, and made no exception to their rule on the

present occasion, a suitable gloom was the keynote of the gathering.

Mr. Jackson seemed to bear the parting with fortitude, as did Mike’s

Uncle John (providentially roped in at the eleventh hour on his way

to Scotland, in time to come down with a handsome tip). To their

coarse-fibred minds there was nothing pathetic or tragic about the

affair at all. (At the very moment when the train began to glide out

of the station Uncle John was heard to remark that, in his opinion,

these Bocks weren’t a patch on the old shaped Larranaga.) Among others

present might have been noticed Saunders, practising late cuts rather

coyly with a walking-stick in the background; the village idiot, who

had rolled up on the chance of a dole; Gladys Maud Evangeline’s nurse,

smiling vaguely; and Gladys Maud Evangeline herself, frankly bored

with the whole business.

 

The train gathered speed. The air was full of last messages. Uncle

John said on second thoughts he wasn’t sure these Bocks weren’t half a

bad smoke after all. Gladys Maud cried, because she had taken a sudden

dislike to the village idiot; and Mike settled himself in the corner

and opened a magazine.

 

He was alone in the carriage. Bob, who had been spending the last week

of the holidays with an aunt further down the line, was to board the

train at East Wobsley, and the brothers were to make a state entry

into Wrykyn together. Meanwhile, Mike was left to his milk chocolate,

his magazines, and his reflections.

 

The latter were not numerous, nor profound. He was excited. He had

been petitioning the home authorities for the past year to be allowed

to leave his private school and go to Wrykyn, and now the thing had

come about. He wondered what sort of a house Wain’s was, and whether

they had any chance of the cricket cup. According to Bob they had no

earthly; but then Bob only recognised one house, Donaldson’s. He

wondered if Bob would get his first eleven cap this year, and if he

himself were likely to do anything at cricket. Marjory had faithfully

reported every word Saunders had said on the subject, but Bob had been

so careful to point out his insignificance when compared with the

humblest Wrykynian that the professional’s glowing prophecies had not

had much effect. It might be true that some day he would play for

England, but just at present he felt he would exchange his place in

the team for one in the Wrykyn third eleven. A sort of mist enveloped

everything Wrykynian. It seemed almost hopeless to try and compete

with these unknown experts. On the other hand, there was Bob. Bob, by

all accounts, was on the verge of the first eleven, and he was nothing

special.

 

While he was engaged on these reflections, the train drew up at a

small station. Opposite the door of Mike’s compartment was standing a

boy of about Mike’s size, though evidently some years older. He had a

sharp face, with rather a prominent nose; and a pair of pince-nez gave

him a supercilious look. He wore a bowler hat, and carried a small

portmanteau.

 

He opened the door, and took the seat opposite to Mike, whom he

scrutinised for a moment rather after the fashion of a naturalist

examining some new and unpleasant variety of beetle. He seemed about

to make some remark, but, instead, got up and looked through the open

window.

 

“Where’s that porter?” Mike heard him say.

 

The porter came skimming down the platform at that moment.

 

“Porter.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“Are those frightful boxes of mine in all right?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Because, you know, there’ll be a frightful row if any of them get

lost.”

 

“No chance of that, sir.”

 

“Here you are, then.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

The youth drew his head and shoulders in, stared at Mike again, and

finally sat down. Mike noticed that he had nothing to read, and

wondered if he wanted anything; but he did not feel equal to offering

him one of his magazines. He did not like the looks of him

particularly. Judging by appearances, he seemed to carry enough side

for three. If he wanted a magazine, thought Mike, let him ask for it.

 

The other made no overtures, and at the next stop got out. That

explained his magazineless condition. He was only travelling a short

way.

 

“Good business,” said Mike to himself. He had all the Englishman’s

love of a carriage to himself.

 

The train was just moving out of the station when his eye was suddenly

caught by the stranger’s bag, lying snugly in the rack.

 

And here, I regret to say, Mike acted from the best motives, which is

always fatal.

 

He realised in an instant what had happened. The fellow had forgotten

his bag.

 

Mike had not been greatly fascinated by the stranger’s looks; but,

after all, the most supercilious person on earth has a right to his

own property. Besides, he might have been quite a nice fellow when you

got to know him. Anyhow, the bag had better be returned at once. The

trainwas already moving quite fast, and Mike’s compartment was nearing

the end of the platform.

 

He snatched the bag from the rack and hurled it out of the window.

(Porter Robinson, who happened to be in the line of fire, escaped with

a flesh wound.) Then he sat down again with the inward glow of

satisfaction which comes to one when one has risen successfully to a

sudden emergency.

 

*

 

The glow lasted till the next stoppage, which did not occur for a good

many miles. Then it ceased abruptly, for the train had scarcely come

to a standstill when the opening above the door was darkened by a head

and shoulders. The head was surmounted by a bowler, and a pair of

pince-nez gleamed from the shadow.

 

“Hullo, I say,” said the stranger. “Have you changed carriages, or

what?”

 

“No,” said Mike.

 

“Then, dash it, where’s my frightful bag?”

 

Life teems with embarrassing situations. This was one of them.

 

“The fact is,” said Mike, “I chucked it out.”

 

“Chucked it out! what do you mean? When?”

 

“At the last station.”

 

The guard blew his whistle, and the other jumped into the carriage.

 

“I thought you’d got out there for good,” explained Mike. “I’m awfully

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