Mike by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (most popular novels .TXT) 📕
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 e
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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.
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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