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change bowler who had been put on at the other

end for a couple of fluky fours. Then Mike got the bowling for three

consecutive overs, and raised the score to a hundred and twenty-six. A

bye brought Henfrey to the batting end again, and de Freece’s pet

googly, which had not been much in evidence hitherto, led to his

snicking an easy catch into short-slip’s hands.

 

A hundred and twenty-seven for seven against a total of a hundred and

sixty-six gives the impression that the batting side has the

advantage. In the present case, however, it was Ripton who were really

in the better position. Apparently, Wrykyn had three more wickets to

fall. Practically they had only one, for neither Ashe, nor Grant, nor

Devenish had any pretensions to be considered batsmen. Ashe was the

school wicket-keeper. Grant and Devenish were bowlers. Between them

the three could not be relied on for a dozen in a decent match.

 

Mike watched Ashe shape with a sinking heart. The wicket-keeper looked

like a man who feels that his hour has come. Mike could see him

licking his lips. There was nervousness written all over him.

 

He was not kept long in suspense. De Freece’s first ball made a

hideous wreck of his wicket.

 

“Over,” said the umpire.

 

Mike felt that the school’s one chance now lay in his keeping the

bowling. But how was he to do this? It suddenly occurred to him that

it was a delicate position that he was in. It was not often that he

was troubled by an inconvenient modesty, but this happened now. Grant

was a fellow he hardly knew, and a school prefect to boot. Could he go

up to him and explain that he, Jackson, did not consider him competent

to bat in this crisis? Would not this get about and be accounted to

him for side? He had made forty, but even so….

 

Fortunately Grant solved the problem on his own account. He came up to

Mike and spoke with an earnestness born of nerves. “For goodness

sake,” he whispered, “collar the bowling all you know, or we’re done.

I shall get outed first ball.”

 

“All right,” said Mike, and set his teeth. Forty to win! A large

order. But it was going to be done. His whole existence seemed to

concentrate itself on those forty runs.

 

The fast bowler, who was the last of several changes that had been

tried at the other end, was well-meaning but erratic. The wicket was

almost true again now, and it was possible to take liberties.

 

Mike took them.

 

A distant clapping from the pavilion, taken up a moment later all

round the ground, and echoed by the Ripton fieldsmen, announced that

he had reached his fifty.

 

The last ball of the over he mishit. It rolled in the direction of

third man.

 

“Come on,” shouted Grant.

 

Mike and the ball arrived at the opposite wicket almost

simultaneously. Another fraction of a second, and he would have been

run out.

 

[Illustration: MIKE AND THE BALL ARRIVED ALMOST SIMULTANEOUSLY]

 

The last balls of the next two overs provided repetitions of this

performance. But each time luck was with him, and his bat was across

the crease before the bails were off. The telegraph-board showed a

hundred and fifty.

 

The next over was doubly sensational. The original medium-paced bowler

had gone on again in place of the fast man, and for the first five

balls he could not find his length. During those five balls Mike

raised the score to a hundred and sixty.

 

But the sixth was of a different kind. Faster than the rest and of a

perfect length, it all but got through Mike’s defence. As it was, he

stopped it. But he did not score. The umpire called “Over!” and there

was Grant at the batting end, with de Freece smiling pleasantly as he

walked back to begin his run with the comfortable reflection that at

last he had got somebody except Mike to bowl at.

 

That over was an experience Mike never forgot.

 

Grant pursued the Fabian policy of keeping his bat almost immovable

and trusting to luck. Point and the slips crowded round. Mid-off and

mid-on moved half-way down the pitch. Grant looked embarrassed, but

determined. For four balls he baffled the attack, though once nearly

caught by point a yard from the wicket. The fifth curled round his

bat, and touched the off-stump. A bail fell silently to the ground.

 

Devenish came in to take the last ball of the over.

 

It was an awe-inspiring moment. A great stillness was over all the

ground. Mike’s knees trembled. Devenish’s face was a delicate grey.

 

The only person unmoved seemed to be de Freece. His smile was even

more amiable than usual as he began his run.

 

The next moment the crisis was past. The ball hit the very centre of

Devenish’s bat, and rolled back down the pitch.

 

The school broke into one great howl of joy. There were still seven

runs between them and victory, but nobody appeared to recognise this

fact as important. Mike had got the bowling, and the bowling was not

de Freece’s.

 

It seemed almost an anti-climax when a four to leg and two two’s

through the slips settled the thing.

 

*

 

Devenish was caught and bowled in de Freece’s next over; but the

Wrykyn total was one hundred and seventy-two.

 

*

 

“Good game,” said Maclaine, meeting Burgess in the pavilion. “Who was

the man who made all the runs? How many, by the way?”

 

“Eighty-three. It was young Jackson. Brother of the other one.”

 

“That family! How many more of them are you going to have here?”

 

“He’s the last. I say, rough luck on de Freece. He bowled rippingly.”

 

Politeness to a beaten foe caused Burgess to change his usual “not

bad.”

 

“The funny part of it is,” continued he, “that young Jackson was only

playing as a sub.”

 

“You’ve got a rum idea of what’s funny,” said Maclaine.

CHAPTER XXIX

WYATT AGAIN

 

It was a morning in the middle of September. The Jacksons were

breakfasting. Mr. Jackson was reading letters. The rest, including

Gladys Maud, whose finely chiselled features were gradually

disappearing behind a mask of bread-and-milk, had settled down to

serious work. The usual catch-as-catch-can contest between Marjory and

Phyllis for the jam (referee and time-keeper, Mrs. Jackson) had

resulted, after both combatants had been cautioned by the referee, in

a victory for Marjory, who had duly secured the stakes. The hour being

nine-fifteen, and the official time for breakfast nine o’clock, Mike’s

place was still empty.

 

“I’ve had a letter from MacPherson,” said Mr. Jackson.

 

MacPherson was the vigorous and persevering gentleman, referred to in

a previous chapter, who kept a fatherly eye on the Buenos Ayres sheep.

 

“He seems very satisfied with Mike’s friend Wyatt. At the moment of

writing Wyatt is apparently incapacitated owing to a bullet in the

shoulder, but expects to be fit again shortly. That young man seems to

make things fairly lively wherever he is. I don’t wonder he found a

public school too restricted a sphere for his energies.”

 

“Has he been fighting a duel?” asked Marjory, interested.

 

“Bushrangers,” said Phyllis.

 

“There aren’t any bushrangers in Buenos Ayres,” said Ella.

 

“How do you know?” said Phyllis clinchingly.

 

“Bush-ray, bush-ray, bush-ray,” began Gladys Maud, conversationally,

through the bread-and-milk; but was headed off.

 

“He gives no details. Perhaps that letter on Mike’s plate supplies

them. I see it comes from Buenos Ayres.”

 

“I wish Mike would come and open it,” said Marjory. “Shall I go and

hurry him up?”

 

The missing member of the family entered as she spoke.

 

“Buck up, Mike,” she shouted. “There’s a letter from Wyatt. He’s been

wounded in a duel.”

 

“With a bushranger,” added Phyllis.

 

“Bush-ray,” explained Gladys Maud.

 

“Is there?” said Mike. “Sorry I’m late.”

 

He opened the letter and began to read.

 

“What does he say?” inquired Marjory. “Who was the duel with?”

 

“How many bushrangers were there?” asked Phyllis.

 

Mike read on.

 

“Good old Wyatt! He’s shot a man.”

 

“Killed him?” asked Marjory excitedly.

 

“No. Only potted him in the leg. This is what he says. First page is

mostly about the Ripton match and so on. Here you are. ‘I’m dictating

this to a sportsman of the name of Danvers, a good chap who can’t help

being ugly, so excuse bad writing. The fact is we’ve been having a

bust-up here, and I’ve come out of it with a bullet in the shoulder,

which has crocked me for the time being. It happened like this. An

ass of a Gaucho had gone into the town and got jolly tight, and

coming back, he wanted to ride through our place. The old woman who

keeps the lodge wouldn’t have it at any price. Gave him the absolute

miss-in-baulk. So this rotter, instead of shifting off, proceeded to

cut the fence, and go through that way. All the farms out here have

their boundaries marked by wire fences, and it is supposed to be a

deadly sin to cut these. Well, the lodge-keeper’s son dashed off in

search of help. A chap called Chester, an Old Wykehamist, and I were

dipping sheep close by, so he came to us and told us what had happened.

We nipped on to a couple of horses, pulled out our revolvers, and

tooled after him. After a bit we overtook him, and that’s when the

trouble began. The johnny had dismounted when we arrived. I thought

he was simply tightening his horse’s girths. What he was really doing

was getting a steady aim at us with his revolver. He fired as we came

up, and dropped poor old Chester. I thought he was killed at first, but

it turned out it was only his leg. I got going then. I emptied all the

six chambers of my revolver, and missed him clean every time. In the

meantime he got me in the right shoulder. Hurt like sin afterwards,

though it was only a sort of dull shock at the moment. The next item

of the programme was a forward move in force on the part of the enemy.

The man had got his knife out now—why he didn’t shoot again I don’t

know—and toddled over in our direction to finish us off. Chester was

unconscious, and it was any money on the Gaucho, when I happened to

catch sight of Chester’s pistol, which had fallen just by where I came

down. I picked it up, and loosed off. Missed the first shot, but got

him with the second in the ankle at about two yards; and his day’s

work was done. That’s the painful story. Danvers says he’s getting

writer’s cramp, so I shall have to stop….’”

 

“By Jove!” said Mike.

 

“What a dreadful thing!” said Mrs. Jackson.

 

“Anyhow, it was practically a bushranger,” said Phyllis.

 

“I told you it was a duel, and so it was,” said Marjory.

 

“What a terrible experience for the poor boy!” said Mrs. Jackson.

 

“Much better than being in a beastly bank,” said Mike, summing up.

“I’m glad he’s having such a ripping time. It must be almost as decent

as Wrykyn out there…. I say, what’s under that dish?”

CHAPTER XXX

MR. JACKSON MAKES UP HIS MIND

 

Two years have elapsed and Mike is home again for the Easter holidays.

 

If Mike had been in time for breakfast that morning he might

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