Mike at Wrykyn Read Online Free PDF Page A

and he said, ‘Not
bad.’ But he says that about everything. It’s his highest form of praise. He
says it when he wants to let himself go and simply butter up a thing. If you
took him to see Trueman bowl, he’d say he wasn’t bad. What he meant was that he
was jolly struck with your batting, and is going to play you for the Under
Sixteen.”
    “I hope
so,” said Mike.
    The
prophecy was fulfilled. On the following Wednesday there was a match between
the Under Sixteen and a scratch side. Mike’s name was among the Under Sixteen.
And on the Saturday he was playing for the third eleven in a trial game.
    “This
place is ripping,” he said to himself, as he saw his name on the list. “Thought
I should like it.”
    And
that night he wrote a letter to his father, notifying him of the fact.

 
     
     
    CHAPTER
V
     
    REVELRY BY NIGHT
     
    A SUCCESSION of events
combined to upset Mike during his first fortnight at school. He was far more
successful than he had any right to be at his age. There is nothing more heady
than success, and if it comes before we are prepared for it, it is apt to throw
us off our balance. As a rule, at school, years of wholesome obscurity make us
ready for any small triumphs we may achieve at the end of our time there. Mike
had skipped these years. He was older than the average new boy, and his batting
was undeniable. He knew quite well that he was regarded as a find by the
cricket authorities; and the knowledge was not particularly good for him. It
did not make him conceited, for his was not a nature at all addicted to conceit.
The effect it had on him was to make him excessively pleased with life. And
when Mike was pleased with life he always found a difficulty in obeying
Authority and its rules. His state of mind was not improved by an interview
with Bob.
    Some
evil genius put it into Bob’s mind that it was his duty to be, if only for one
performance, the Heavy Elder Brother to Mike; to give him good advice. It is
never the smallest use for an elder brother to attempt to do anything for the
good of a younger brother at school, for the latter rebels automatically
against such interference in his concerns; but Bob did not know this. He only
knew that he had received a letter from home, in which his mother had assumed
without evidence that he was leading Mike by the hand round the pitfalls of
life at Wrykyn; and his conscience smote him. Beyond asking him occasionally,
when they met, how he was getting on (a question to which Mike invariably
replied, “Oh, all right”), he was not aware of having done anything brotherly
towards the youngster. So he asked Mike to tea in his study one afternoon
before going to the nets.
    Mike
arrived, sidling into the study in the half-sheepish, half-defiant manner
peculiar to small brothers in the presence of their elders, and stared in
silence at the photographs on the walls. Bob was changing into his cricket
things. The atmosphere was one of constraint and awkwardness.
    The
arrival of tea was the cue for conversation. “Well, how are you getting on?”
asked Bob. “Oh, all right,” said Mike.
    Silence.
    “Sugar?”
asked Bob. “Thanks,” said Mike. “How many lumps?”
    “Two,
please.”
    “Cake?”
    “Thanks.”
    Silence.
    Bob pulled
himself together.
    “Like
Wain’s?”
    “Ripping.”
    “I
asked Firby-Smith to keep an eye on you,” said Bob.
    “What!”
said Mike.
    The
mere idea of a worm like the Gazeka being told to keep an eye on him was
degrading.
    “He
said he’d look after you,” added Bob, making things worse.
    Look
after him! Him! M. Jackson, of the third eleven! !!
    Mike
helped himself to another chunk of cake, and spoke crushingly.
    “He
needn’t trouble,” he said. “I can look after myself all right, thanks.”
    Bob saw
an opening for the entry of the Heavy Elder Brother.
    “Look
here, Mike,” he said, “I’m only saying it for your good—”
    I
should like to state here that it was not Bob’s habit to go about the