Psmith Series. P. G. Wodehouse
me a half-volley on the off the first ball I had in a school match.; By the way, I wonder if he’s out at the net now.; Let’s go and see.”
Saunders was setting up the net when they arrived.; Mike put on his pads and went to the wickets, while Marjory and the dogs retired as usual to the far hedge to retrieve.
She was kept busy.; Saunders was a good sound bowler of the M.C.C. minor match type, and there had been a time when he had worried Mike considerably, but Mike had been in the Wrykyn team for three seasons now, and each season he had advanced tremendously in his batting.; He had filled out in three years.; He had always had the style, and now he had the strength as well.; Saunders’s bowling on a true wicket seemed simple to him.; It was early in the Easter holidays, but already he was beginning to find his form.; Saunders, who looked on Mike as his own special invention, was delighted.
“If you don’t be worried by being too anxious now that you’re captain, Master Mike,” he said, “you’ll make a century every match next term.”
“I wish I wasn’t; it’s a beastly responsibility.”
Henfrey, the Wrykyn cricket captain of the previous season, was not returning next term, and Mike was to reign in his stead.; He liked the prospect, but it certainly carried with it a rather awe-inspiring responsibility.; At night sometimes he would lie awake, appalled by the fear of losing his form, or making a hash of things by choosing the wrong men to play for the school and leaving the right men out.; It is no light thing to captain a public school at cricket.
As he was walking towards the house, Phyllis met him.; “Oh, I’ve been hunting for you, Mike; father wants you.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where?”
“He’s in the study.; He seems—” added Phyllis, throwing in the information by way of a make-weight, “in a beastly wax.”
Mike’s jaw fell slightly.; “I hope the dickens it’s nothing to do with that bally report,” was his muttered exclamation.
Mike’s dealings with his father were as a rule of a most pleasant nature.; Mr. Jackson was an understanding sort of man, who treated his sons as companions.; From time to time, however, breezes were apt to ruffle the placid sea of good-fellowship.; Mike’s end-of-term report was an unfailing wind-raiser; indeed, on the arrival of Mr. Blake’s sarcastic résumé of Mike’s short-comings at the end of the previous term, there had been something not unlike a typhoon.; It was on this occasion that Mr. Jackson had solemnly declared his intention of removing Mike from Wrykyn unless the critics became more flattering; and Mr. Jackson was a man of his word.
It was with a certain amount of apprehension, therefore, that Jackson entered the study.
“Come in, Mike,” said his father, kicking the waste-paper basket; “I want to speak to you.”
Mike, skilled in omens, scented a row in the offing.; Only in moments of emotion was Mr. Jackson in the habit of booting the basket.
There followed an awkward silence, which Mike broke by remarking that he had carted a half-volley from Saunders over the on-side hedge that morning.
“It was just a bit short and off the leg stump, so I stepped out—may I bag the paper-knife for a jiffy?; I’ll just show——”
“Never mind about cricket now,” said Mr. Jackson; “I want you to listen to this report.”
“Oh, is that my report, father?” said Mike, with a sort of sickly interest, much as a dog about to be washed might evince in his tub.
“It is,” replied Mr. Jackson in measured tones, “your report; what is more, it is without exception the worst report you have ever had.”
“Oh, I say!” groaned the record-breaker.
“‘His conduct,’” quoted Mr. Jackson, “’has been unsatisfactory in the extreme, both in and out of school.’”
“It wasn’t anything really.; I only happened——”
Remembering suddenly that what he had happened to do was to drop a cannon-ball (the school weight) on the form-room floor, not once, but on several occasions, he paused.
“‘French bad; conduct disgraceful——’”
“Everybody rags in French.”
“‘Mathematics bad.; Inattentive and idle.’”
“Nobody does much work in Math.”
“‘Latin poor.; Greek, very poor.’”
“We were doing Thucydides, Book Two, last term—all speeches and doubtful readings, and cruxes and things—beastly hard!; Everybody says so.”
“Here are Mr. Appleby’s remarks:; ’The boy has genuine ability, which he declines to use in the smallest degree.’”
Mike moaned a moan of righteous indignation.
“’An abnormal proficiency at games has apparently destroyed all desire in him to realise the more serious issues of life.’; There is more to the same effect.”
Mr. Appleby was a master with very definite ideas as to what constituted a public-school master’s duties.; As a man he was distinctly pro-Mike.; He understood cricket, and some of Mike’s shots on the off gave him thrills of pure aesthetic joy; but as a master he always made it his habit to regard the manners and customs of the boys in his form with an unbiased eye, and to an unbiased eye Mike in a form-room was about as near the extreme edge as a boy could be, and Mr. Appleby said as much in a clear firm hand.
“You remember what I said to you about your report at Christmas, Mike?” said Mr. Jackson, folding the lethal document and replacing it in its envelope.
Mike said nothing; there was a sinking feeling in his interior.
“I shall abide by what I said.”
Mike’s heart thumped.
“You will not go back to Wrykyn next term.”
Somewhere in the world the sun was shining, birds were twittering; somewhere in the world lambkins frisked and peasants sang blithely at their toil (flat, perhaps, but still blithely), but to Mike at that moment the sky was black, and an icy wind blew over the face of the earth.
The tragedy had happened, and there was an end of it.; He made no attempt to appeal against the sentence.; He knew it would be useless, his father, when he made up his mind, having all the unbending tenacity of the normally easy-going man.
Mr. Jackson was sorry for Mike.; He understood him, and for that reason he said very little now.
“I am sending you to Sedleigh,” was his next remark.
Sedleigh!; Mike sat up with a jerk.; He knew Sedleigh by name—one of those schools with about a hundred fellows which you never hear of except when they send up their gymnasium pair to Aldershot, or their Eight to Bisley.; Mike’s outlook on life was that of a cricketer, pure and simple.; What had Sedleigh ever done?; What were they ever likely to do?; Whom did they play?; What Old Sedleighan had ever done anything at cricket?; Perhaps they didn’t even play cricket!
“But it’s an awful hole,” he said blankly.
Mr. Jackson could read Mike’s mind like a book.; Mike’s point of view was plain to him.; He did not approve of it, but he knew that in Mike’s place and at Mike’s age he would have felt the same.; He spoke drily to hide his sympathy.
“It is not a large school,” he said, “and I don’t suppose it could play Wrykyn at cricket, but it has one merit—boys work there.; Young Barlitt won a Balliol scholarship from Sedleigh last year.”; Barlitt was the vicar’s son, a silent, spectacled youth who did not enter very largely into Mike’s world.; They had met occasionally at tennis-parties, but not much conversation had ensued.; Barlitt’s