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Mike: A Public School Story

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<h3 class="chap"> CHAPTER XXIX WYATT AGAIN</h3> 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?” <h3 class="chap"> CHAPTER XXX MR. JACKSON MAKES UP HIS MIND</h3> 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 have gathered from the expression on his father’s face, as Mr. Jackson opened the envelope containing his school report and read the contents, that the document in question was not exactly a paean of praise from beginning to end.  But he was late, as usual.  Mike always was late for breakfast in the holidays. When he came down on this particular morning, the meal was nearly over.  Mr. Jackson had disappeared, taking his correspondence with him; Mrs. Jackson had gone into the kitchen, and when Mike appeared the thing had resolved itself into a mere vulgar brawl between Phyllis and Ella for the jam, while Marjory, who had put her hair up a fortnight before, looked on in a detached sort of way, as if these juvenile gambols distressed her. “Hullo, Mike,” she said, jumping up as he entered; “here you are—I’ve been keeping everything hot for you.” “Have you?  Thanks awfully.  I say—” his eye wandered in mild surprise round the table.  “I’m a bit late.” Marjory was bustling about, fetching and carrying for Mike, as she always did.  She had adopted him at an early age, and did the thing thoroughly.  She was fond of her other brothers, especially when they made centuries in first-class cricket, but Mike was her favourite.  She would field out in the deep as a natural thing when Mike was batting at the net in the paddock, though for the others, even for Joe, who had played in all five Test Matches in the previous summer, she would do it only as a favour. Phyllis and Ella finished their dispute and went out.  Marjory sat on the table and watched Mike eat. “Your report came this morning, Mike,” she said. The kidneys failed to retain Mike’s undivided attention.  He looked up interested.  “What did it say?” “I didn’t see—I only caught sight of the Wrykyn crest on the envelope.  Father didn’t say anything.” Mike seemed concerned.  “I say, that looks rather rotten!  I wonder if it was awfully bad.  It’s the first I’ve had from Appleby.” “It can’t be any worse than the horrid ones Mr. Blake used to write when you were in his form.” “No, that’s a comfort,” said Mike philosophically.  “Think there’s any more tea in that pot?” “I call it a shame,” said Marjory; “they ought to be jolly glad to have you at Wrykyn just for cricket, instead of writing beastly reports that make father angry and don’t do any good to anybody.” “Last summer he said he’d take me away if I got another one.” “He didn’t mean it really, I know he didn’t!  He couldn’t!  You’re the best bat Wrykyn’s ever had.” “What ho!” interpolated Mike. “You are.  Everybody says you are.  Why, you got your first the very first term you were there—even Joe didn’t do anything nearly so good as that.  Saunders says you’re simply bound to play for England in another year or two.” “Saunders is a jolly good chap.  He bowled 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 mind was massive, but his topics of conversation were not Mike’s. “Mr. Barlitt speaks very highly of Sedleigh,” added Mr. Jackson. Mike said nothing, which was a good deal better than saying what he would have liked to have said. <h3 class="chap"> CHAPTER XXXI SEDLEIGH</h3> The train, which had been stopping everywhere for the last half-hour, pulled up again, and Mike, seeing the name of the station, got up, opened the door, and hurled a Gladstone bag out on to the platform in an emphatic and vindictive manner.  Then he got out himself and looked about him. “For the school, sir?” inquired the solitary porter, bustling up, as if he hoped by sheer energy to deceive the traveller into thinking that Sedleigh station was staffed by a great army of porters. Mike nodded.  A sombre nod.  The nod Napoleon might have given if somebody had met him in 1812, and said, “So you’re back from Moscow, eh?” Mike was feeling thoroughly jaundiced.  The future seemed wholly gloomy.  And, so far from attempting to make the best of things, he had set himself deliberately to look on the dark side.  He thought, for instance, that he had never seen a more repulsive porter, or one more obviously incompetent than the man who had attached himself with a firm grasp to the handle of the bag as he strode off in the direction of the luggage-van.  He disliked his voice, his appearance, and the colour of his hair.  Also the boots he wore.  He hated the station, and the man who took his ticket. “Young gents at the school, sir,” said the porter, perceiving from Mike’s distrait air that the boy was a stranger to the place, “goes up in the ’bus mostly.  It’s waiting here, sir.  Hi, George!” “I’ll walk, thanks,” said Mike frigidly. “It’s a goodish step, sir.” “Here you are.” “Thank you, sir.  I’ll send up your luggage by the ’bus, sir.  Which ’ouse was it you was going to?” “Outwood’s.” “Right, sir.  It’s straight on up this road to the school.  You can’t miss it, sir.” “Worse luck,” said Mike. He walked off up the road, sorrier for himself than ever.  It was such absolutely rotten luck.  About now, instead of being on his way to a place where they probably ran a diabolo team instead of a cricket eleven, and played hunt-the-slipper in winter, he would be on the point of arriving at Wrykyn.  And as captain of cricket, at that.  Which was the bitter part of it.  He had never been in command.  For the last two seasons he had been the star man, going in first, and heading the averages easily at the end of the season; and the three captains under whom he had played during his career as a Wrykynian, Burgess, Enderby, and Henfrey had always been sportsmen to him.  But it was not the same thing.  He had meant to do such a lot for Wrykyn cricket this term.  He had had an entirely new system of coaching in his mind.  Now it might never be used.  He had handed it on in a letter to Strachan, who would be captain in his place; but probably Strachan would have some scheme of his own.  There is nobody who could not edit a paper in the ideal way; and there is nobody who has not a theory of his own about cricket-coaching at school. Wrykyn, too, would be weak this year, now that he was no longer there.  Strachan was a good, free bat on his day, and, if he survived a few overs, might make a century in an hour, but he was not to be depended upon.  There was no doubt that Mike’s sudden withdrawal meant that Wrykyn would have a bad time that season.  And it had been such a wretched athletic year for the school.  The football fifteen had been hopeless, and had lost both the Ripton matches, the return by over sixty points.  Sheen’s victory in the light-weights at Aldershot had been their one success.  And now, on top of all this, the captain of cricket was removed during the Easter holidays.  Mike’s heart bled for Wrykyn, and he found himself loathing Sedleigh and all its works with a great loathing. The only thing he could find in its favour was the fact that it was set in a very pretty country.  Of a different type from the Wrykyn country, but almost as good.  For three miles Mike made his way through woods and past fields.  Once he crossed a river.  It was soon after this that he caught sight, from the top of a hill, of a group of buildings that wore an unmistakably school-like look. This must be Sedleigh. Ten minutes’ walk brought him to the school gates, and a baker’s boy directed him to Mr. Outwood’s. There were three houses in a row, separated from the school buildings by a cricket-field.  Outwood’s was the middle one of these. Mike went to the front door, and knocked.  At Wrykyn he had always charged in at the beginning of term at the boys’ entrance, but this formal reporting of himself at Sedleigh suited his mood. He inquired for Mr. Outwood, and was shown into a room lined with books.  Presently the door opened, and the house-master appeared. There was something pleasant and homely about Mr. Outwood.  In appearance he reminded Mike of Smee in “Peter Pan.”  He had the same eyebrows and pince-nez and the same motherly look. “Jackson?” he said mildly. “Yes, sir.” “I am very glad to see you, very glad indeed.  Perhaps you would like a cup of tea after your journey.  I think you might like a cup of tea.  You come from Crofton, in Shropshire, I understand, Jackson, near Brindleford?  It is a part of the country which I have always wished to visit.  I daresay you have frequently seen the Cluniac Priory of St. Ambrose at Brindleford?” Mike, who would not have recognised a Cluniac Priory if you had handed him one on a tray, said he had not. “Dear me!  You have missed an opportunity which I should have been glad to have.  I am preparing a book on Ruined Abbeys and Priories of England, and it has always been my wish to see the Cluniac Priory of St. Ambrose.  A deeply interesting relic of the sixteenth century.  Bishop Geoffrey, 1133-40——” “Shall I go across to the boys’ part, sir?” “What?  Yes.  Oh, yes.  Quite so.  And perhaps you would like a cup of tea after your journey?  No?  Quite so.  Quite so.  You should make a point of visiting the remains of the Cluniac Priory in the summer holidays, Jackson.  You will find the matron in her room.  In many respects it is unique.  The northern altar is in a state of really wonderful preservation.  It consists of a solid block of masonry five feet long and two and a half wide, with chamfered plinth, standing quite free from the apse wall.  It will well repay a visit.  Good-bye for the present, Jackson, good-bye.” Mike wandered across to the other side of the house, his gloom visibly deepened.  All alone in a strange school, where they probably played hopscotch, with a house-master who offered one cups of tea after one’s journey and talked about chamfered plinths and apses.  It was a little hard. He strayed about, finding his bearings, and finally came to a room which he took to be the equivalent of the senior day-room at a Wrykyn house.  Everywhere else he had found nothing but emptiness.  Evidently he had come by an earlier train than was usual.  But this room was occupied. A very long, thin youth, with a solemn face and immaculate clothes, was leaning against the mantelpiece.  As Mike entered, he fumbled in his top left waistcoat pocket, produced an eyeglass attached to a cord, and fixed it in his right eye.  With the help of this aid to vision he inspected Mike in silence for a while, then, having flicked an invisible speck of dust from the left sleeve of his coat, he spoke. “Hullo,” he said. He spoke in a tired voice. “Hullo,” said Mike. “Take a seat,” said the immaculate one.  “If you don’t mind dirtying your bags, that’s to say.  Personally, I don’t see any prospect of ever sitting down in this place.  It looks to me as if they meant to use these chairs as mustard-and-cress beds.  A Nursery Garden in the Home.  That sort of idea.  My name,” he added pensively, “is Smith.  What’s yours?” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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