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“I should like to say good-bye. But I don’t suppose it’ll be

possible.”

 

They separated in the direction of their respective form-rooms. Mike

felt bitter and disappointed at the way the news had been received.

Wyatt was his best friend, his pal; and it offended him that the

school should take the tidings of his departure as they had done. Most

of them who had come to him for information had expressed a sort of

sympathy with the absent hero of his story, but the chief sensation

seemed to be one of pleasurable excitement at the fact that something

big had happened to break the monotony of school routine. They treated

the thing much as they would have treated the announcement that a

record score had been made in first-class cricket. The school was not

so much regretful as comfortably thrilled. And Burgess had actually

cursed before sympathising. Mike felt resentful towards Burgess. As a

matter of fact, the cricket captain wrote a letter to Wyatt during

preparation that night which would have satisfied even Mike’s sense of

what was fit. But Mike had no opportunity of learning this.

 

There was, however, one exception to the general rule, one member of

the school who did not treat the episode as if it were merely an

interesting and impersonal item of sensational news. Neville-Smith

heard of what had happened towards the end of the interval, and rushed

off instantly in search of Mike. He was too late to catch him before

he went to his form-room, so he waited for him at half-past twelve,

when the bell rang for the end of morning school.

 

“I say, Jackson, is this true about old Wyatt?”

 

Mike nodded.

 

“What happened?”

 

Mike related the story for the sixteenth time. It was a melancholy

pleasure to have found a listener who heard the tale in the right

spirit. There was no doubt about Neville-Smith’s interest and

sympathy. He was silent for a moment after Mike had finished.

 

“It was all my fault,” he said at length. “If it hadn’t been for me,

this wouldn’t have happened. What a fool I was to ask him to my place!

I might have known he would be caught.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mike.

 

“It was absolutely my fault.”

 

Mike was not equal to the task of soothing Neville-Smith’s wounded

conscience. He did not attempt it. They walked on without further

conversation till they reached Wain’s gate, where Mike left him.

Neville-Smith proceeded on his way, plunged in meditation.

 

The result of which meditation was that Burgess got a second shock

before the day was out. Bob, going over to the nets rather late in the

afternoon, came upon the captain of cricket standing apart from his

fellow men with an expression on his face that spoke of mental

upheavals on a vast scale.

 

“What’s up?” asked Bob.

 

“Nothing much,” said Burgess, with a forced and grisly calm. “Only

that, as far as I can see, we shall play Ripton on Saturday with a

sort of second eleven. You don’t happen to have got sacked or

anything, by the way, do you?”

 

“What’s happened now?”

 

“Neville-Smith. In extra on Saturday. That’s all. Only our first-and

second-change bowlers out of the team for the Ripton match in one day.

I suppose by to-morrow half the others’ll have gone, and we shall take

the field on Saturday with a scratch side of kids from the Junior

School.”

 

“Neville-Smith! Why, what’s he been doing?”

 

“Apparently he gave a sort of supper to celebrate his getting his

first, and it was while coming back from that that Wyatt got collared.

Well, I’m blowed if Neville-Smith doesn’t toddle off to the Old Man

after school to-day and tell him the whole yarn! Said it was all his

fault. What rot! Sort of thing that might have happened to any one. If

Wyatt hadn’t gone to him, he’d probably have gone out somewhere else.”

 

“And the Old Man shoved him in extra?”

 

“Next two Saturdays.”

 

“Are Ripton strong this year?” asked Bob, for lack of anything better

to say.

 

“Very, from all accounts. They whacked the M.C.C. Jolly hot team of

M.C.C. too. Stronger than the one we drew with.”

 

“Oh, well, you never know what’s going to happen at cricket. I may

hold a catch for a change.”

 

Burgess grunted.

 

Bob went on his way to the nets. Mike was just putting on his pads.

 

“I say, Mike,” said Bob. “I wanted to see you. It’s about Wyatt. I’ve

thought of something.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“A way of getting him out of that bank. If it comes off, that’s to

say.”

 

“By Jove, he’d jump at anything. What’s the idea?”

 

“Why shouldn’t he get a job of sorts out in the Argentine? There ought

to be heaps of sound jobs going there for a chap like Wyatt. He’s a

jolly good shot, to start with. I shouldn’t wonder if it wasn’t rather

a score to be able to shoot out there. And he can ride, I know.”

 

“By Jove, I’ll write to father to-night. He must be able to work it, I

should think. He never chucked the show altogether, did he?”

 

Mike, as most other boys of his age would have been, was profoundly

ignorant as to the details by which his father’s money had been, or

was being, made. He only knew vaguely that the source of revenue had

something to do with the Argentine. His brother Joe had been born in

Buenos Ayres; and once, three years ago, his father had gone over

there for a visit, presumably on business. All these things seemed to

show that Mr. Jackson senior was a useful man to have about if you

wanted a job in that Eldorado, the Argentine Republic.

 

As a matter of fact, Mike’s father owned vast tracts of land up

country, where countless sheep lived and had their being. He had long

retired from active superintendence of his estate. Like Mr. Spenlow,

he had a partner, a stout fellow with the work-taint highly developed,

who asked nothing better than to be left in charge. So Mr. Jackson had

returned to the home of his fathers, glad to be there again. But he

still had a decided voice in the ordering of affairs on the ranches,

and Mike was going to the fountain-head of things when he wrote to his

father that night, putting forward Wyatt’s claims to attention and

ability to perform any sort of job with which he might be presented.

 

The reflection that he had done all that could be done tended to

console him for the non-appearance of Wyatt either that night or next

morning—a non-appearance which was due to the simple fact that he

passed that night in a bed in Mr. Wain’s dressing-room, the door of

which that cautious pedagogue, who believed in taking no chances,

locked from the outside on retiring to rest.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE RIPTON MATCH

 

Mike got an answer from his father on the morning of the Ripton match.

A letter from Wyatt also lay on his plate when he came down to

breakfast.

 

Mr. Jackson’s letter was short, but to the point. He said he would go

and see Wyatt early in the next week. He added that being expelled

from a public school was not the only qualification for success as a

sheep-farmer, but that, if Mike’s friend added to this a general

intelligence and amiability, and a skill for picking off cats with an

air-pistol and bull’s-eyes with a Lee-Enfield, there was no reason why

something should not be done for him. In any case he would buy him a

lunch, so that Wyatt would extract at least some profit from his

visit. He said that he hoped something could be managed. It was a pity

that a boy accustomed to shoot cats should be condemned for the rest

of his life to shoot nothing more exciting than his cuffs.

 

Wyatt’s letter was longer. It might have been published under the

title “My First Day in a Bank, by a Beginner.” His advent had

apparently caused little sensation. He had first had a brief

conversation with the manager, which had run as follows:

 

“Mr. Wyatt?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“H’m … Sportsman?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Cricketer?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Play football?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“H’m … Racquets?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Everything?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“H’m … Well, you won’t get any more of it now.”

 

After which a Mr. Blenkinsop had led him up to a vast ledger, in which

he was to inscribe the addresses of all out-going letters. These

letters he would then stamp, and subsequently take in bundles to the

post office. Once a week he would be required to buy stamps. “If I

were one of those Napoleons of Finance,” wrote Wyatt, “I should cook

the accounts, I suppose, and embezzle stamps to an incredible amount.

But it doesn’t seem in my line. I’m afraid I wasn’t cut out for a

business career. Still, I have stamped this letter at the expense

of the office, and entered it up under the heading ‘Sundries,’ which

is a sort of start. Look out for an article in the Wrykynian,

‘Hints for Young Criminals, by J. Wyatt, champion catch-as-catch-can

stamp-stealer of the British Isles.’ So long. I suppose you are

playing against Ripton, now that the world of commerce has found that

it can’t get on without me. Mind you make a century, and then perhaps

Burgess’ll give you your first after all. There were twelve colours

given three years ago, because one chap left at half-term and the man

who played instead of him came off against Ripton.”

 

*

 

This had occurred to Mike independently. The Ripton match was a

special event, and the man who performed any outstanding feat against

that school was treated as a sort of Horatius. Honours were heaped

upon him. If he could only make a century! or even fifty. Even twenty,

if it got the school out of a tight place. He was as nervous on the

Saturday morning as he had been on the morning of the M.C.C. match. It

was Victory or Westminster Abbey now. To do only averagely well, to be

among the ruck, would be as useless as not playing at all, as far as

his chance of his first was concerned.

 

It was evident to those who woke early on the Saturday morning that

this Ripton match was not likely to end in a draw. During the Friday

rain had fallen almost incessantly in a steady drizzle. It had stopped

late at night; and at six in the morning there was every prospect of

another hot day. There was that feeling in the air which shows that

the sun is trying to get through the clouds. The sky was a dull grey

at breakfast time, except where a flush of deeper colour gave a hint

of the sun. It was a day on which to win the toss, and go in first. At

eleven-thirty, when the match was timed to begin, the wicket would be

too wet to be difficult. Runs would come easily till the sun came out

and began to dry the ground. When that happened there would be trouble

for the side that was batting.

 

Burgess, inspecting the wicket with Mr. Spence during the quarter to

eleven interval, was not slow to recognise this fact.

 

“I should win the toss to-day, if I were you, Burgess,” said Mr.

Spence.

 

“Just what I was thinking, sir.”

 

“That wicket’s going to get nasty after

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