Psmith Series. P. G. Wodehouse
in his uncle’s eyes.
“May as well tell me.; I won’t give you away.; Why this wounded warrior business when you’ve no more the matter with you than I have?”
Mike hesitated.
“I only wanted to get out of having to write this morning.; There was an exam. on.”
The idea had occurred to him just before he spoke.; It had struck him as neat and plausible.
To Uncle John it did not appear in the same light.
“Do you always write with your left hand?; And if you had gone with the first eleven to Geddington, wouldn’t that have got you out of your exam?; Try again.”
When in doubt, one may as well tell the truth.; Mike told it.
“I know.; It wasn’t that, really.; Only——”
“Well?”
“Oh, well, dash it all then.; Old Bob got me out of an awful row the day before yesterday, and he seemed a bit sick at not playing for the first, so I thought I might as well let him.; That’s how it was.; Look here, swear you won’t tell him.”
Uncle John was silent.; Inwardly he was deciding that the five shillings which he had intended to bestow on Mike on his departure should become a sovereign. (This, it may be mentioned as an interesting biographical fact, was the only occasion in his life on which Mike earned money at the rate of fifteen shillings a half-minute.)
“Swear you won’t tell him.; He’d be most frightfully sick if he knew.”
“I won’t tell him.”
Conversation dwindled to vanishing-point.; Uncle John smoked on in weighty silence, while Mike, staring up at the blue sky through the branches of the willow, let his mind wander to Geddington, where his fate was even now being sealed.; How had the school got on?; What had Bob done?; If he made about twenty, would they give him his cap?; Supposing....
A faint snore from Uncle John broke in on his meditations.; Then there was a clatter as a briar pipe dropped on to the floor of the boat, and his uncle sat up, gaping.
“Jove, I was nearly asleep.; What’s the time?; Just on six?; Didn’t know it was so late.”
“I ought to be getting back soon, I think.; Lock-up’s at half-past.”
“Up with the anchor, then.; You can tackle that rope with two hands now, eh?; We are not observed.; Don’t fall overboard.; I’m going to shove her off.”
“There’ll be another telegram, I should think,” said Mike, as they reached the school gates.
“Shall we go and look?”
They walked to the shop.
A second piece of grey paper had been pinned up under the first.; Mike pushed his way through the crowd.; It was a longer message this time.
It ran as follows:;
;;;“Geddington 247 (Burgess six wickets, Neville-Smith four).;
;;;Wrykyn 270 for nine (Berridge 86, Marsh 58, Jackson 48).”
Mike worked his way back through the throng, and rejoined his uncle.
“Well?” said Uncle John.
“We won.”
He paused for a moment.
“Bob made forty-eight,” he added carelessly.
Uncle John felt in his pocket, and silently slid a sovereign into Mike’s hand.
It was the only possible reply.
CHAPTER XVII
ANOTHER VACANCY
Wyatt got back late that night, arriving at the dormitory as Mike was going to bed.
“By Jove, I’m done,” he said.; “It was simply baking at Geddington.; And I came back in a carriage with Neville-Smith and Ellerby, and they ragged the whole time.; I wanted to go to sleep, only they wouldn’t let me.; Old Smith was awfully bucked because he’d taken four wickets.; I should think he’d go off his nut if he took eight ever.; He was singing comic songs when he wasn’t trying to put Ellerby under the seat.; How’s your wrist?”
“Oh, better, thanks.”
Wyatt began to undress.
“Any colours?” asked Mike after a pause.; First eleven colours were generally given in the pavilion after a match or on the journey home.
“No.; Only one or two thirds.; Jenkins and Clephane, and another chap, can’t remember who.; No first, though.”
“What was Bob’s innings like?”
“Not bad.; A bit lucky.; He ought to have been out before he’d scored, and he was out when he’d made about sixteen, only the umpire didn’t seem to know that it’s l-b-w when you get your leg right in front of the wicket and the ball hits it.; Never saw a clearer case in my life.; I was in at the other end.; Bit rotten for the Geddington chaps.; Just lost them the match.; Their umpire, too.; Bit of luck for Bob.; He didn’t give the ghost of a chance after that.”
“I should have thought they’d have given him his colours.”
“Most captains would have done, only Burgess is so keen on fielding that he rather keeps off it.”
“Why, did he field badly?”
“Rottenly.; And the man always will choose Billy’s bowling to drop catches off.; And Billy would cut his rich uncle from Australia if he kept on dropping them off him.; Bob’s fielding’s perfectly sinful.; He was pretty bad at the beginning of the season, but now he’s got so nervous that he’s a dozen times worse.; He turns a delicate green when he sees a catch coming.; He let their best man off twice in one over, off Billy, to-day; and the chap went on and made a hundred odd.; Ripping innings bar those two chances.; I hear he’s got an average of eighty in school matches this season.; Beastly man to bowl to.; Knocked me off in half a dozen overs.; And, when he does give a couple of easy chances, Bob puts them both on the floor.; Billy wouldn’t have given him his cap after the match if he’d made a hundred.; Bob’s the sort of man who wouldn’t catch a ball if you handed it to him on a plate, with watercress round it.”
Burgess, reviewing the match that night, as he lay awake in his cubicle, had come to much the same conclusion.; He was very fond of Bob, but two missed catches in one over was straining the bonds of human affection too far.; There would have been serious trouble between David and Jonathan if either had persisted in dropping catches off the other’s bowling.; He writhed in bed as he remembered the second of the two chances which the wretched Bob had refused.; The scene was indelibly printed on his mind.; Chap had got a late cut which he fancied rather.; With great guile he had fed this late cut.; Sent down a couple which he put to the boundary.; Then fired a third much faster and a bit shorter.; Chap had a go at it, just as he had expected:; and he felt that life was a good thing after all when the ball just touched the corner of the bat and flew into Bob’s hands.; And Bob dropped it!
The memory was too bitter.; If he dwelt on it, he felt, he would get insomnia.; So he turned to pleasanter reflections:; the yorker which had shattered the second-wicket man, and the slow head-ball which had led to a big hitter being caught on the boundary.; Soothed by these memories, he fell asleep.
Next morning he found himself in a softened frame of mind.; He thought of Bob’s iniquities with sorrow rather than wrath.; He felt towards him much as a father feels towards a prodigal son whom there is still a chance of reforming.; He overtook Bob on his way to chapel.
Directness was always one of Burgess’s leading qualities.
“Look here, Bob.; About your fielding.; It’s simply awful.”