The Greatest Works of P. G. Wodehouse. P. G. Wodehouse
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up a particularly interesting novel after breakfast on the morning of Mike’s interview with Firby-Smith in the study, the list would have gone up on the notice-board after prayers.; As it was, engrossed in his book, he let the moments go by till the sound on the bell startled him into movement.; And then there was only time to gather up his cap, and sprint.; The paper on which he had intended to write the list and the pen he had laid out to write it with lay untouched on the table.
And, as it was not his habit to put up notices except during the morning, he postponed the thing.; He could write it after tea.; After all, there was a week before the match.
* * * * *
When school was over, he went across to the Infirmary to inquire about Marsh.; The report was more than favourable.; Marsh had better not see any one just yet, In case of accident, but he was certain to be out in time to play against Ripton.
“Doctor Oakes thinks he will be back in school on Tuesday.”
“Banzai!” said Burgess, feeling that life was good.; To take the field against Ripton without Marsh would have been to court disaster.; Marsh’s fielding alone was worth the money.; With him at short slip, Burgess felt safe when he bowled.
The uncomfortable burden of the knowledge that he was about temporarily to sour Bob Jackson’s life ceased for the moment to trouble him.; He crooned extracts from musical comedy as he walked towards the nets.
Recollection of Bob’s hard case was brought to him by the sight of that about-to-be-soured sportsman tearing across the ground in the middle distance in an effort to get to a high catch which Trevor had hit up to him.; It was a difficult catch, and Burgess waited to see if he would bring it off.
Bob got to it with one hand, and held it.; His impetus carried him on almost to where Burgess was standing.
“Well held,” said Burgess.
“Hullo,” said Bob awkwardly.; A gruesome thought had flashed across his mind that the captain might think that this gallery-work was an organised advertisement.
“I couldn’t get both hands to it,” he explained.
“You’re hot stuff in the deep.”
“Easy when you’re only practising.”
“I’ve just been to the Infirmary.”
“Oh.; How’s Marsh?”
“They wouldn’t let me see him, but it’s all right.; He’ll be able to play on Saturday.”
“Good,” said Bob, hoping he had said it as if he meant it.; It was decidedly a blow.; He was glad for the sake of the school, of course, but one has one’s personal ambitions.; To the fact that Mike and not himself was the eleventh cap he had become partially resigned:; but he had wanted rather badly to play against Ripton.
Burgess passed on, his mind full of Bob once more.; What hard luck it was!; There was he, dashing about in the sun to improve his fielding, and all the time the team was filled up.; He felt as if he were playing some low trick on a pal.
Then the Jekyll and Hyde business completed itself.; He suppressed his personal feelings, and became the cricket captain again.
It was the cricket captain who, towards the end of the evening, came upon Firby-Smith and Mike parting at the conclusion of a conversation.; That it had not been a friendly conversation would have been evident to the most casual observer from the manner in which Mike stumped off, swinging his cricket-bag as if it were a weapon of offence.; There are many kinds of walk.; Mike’s was the walk of the Overwrought Soul.
“What’s up?” inquired Burgess.
“Young Jackson, do you mean?; Oh, nothing.; I was only telling him that there was going to be house-fielding to-morrow before breakfast.”
“Didn’t he like the idea?”
“He’s jolly well got to like it,” said the Gazeka, as who should say, “This way for Iron Wills.”; “The frightful kid cut it this morning.; There’ll be worse trouble if he does it again.”
There was, it may be mentioned, not an ounce of malice in the head of Wain’s house.; That by telling the captain of cricket that Mike had shirked fielding-practice he might injure the latter’s prospects of a first eleven cap simply did not occur to him.; That Burgess would feel, on being told of Mike’s slackness, much as a bishop might feel if he heard that a favourite curate had become a Mahometan or a Mumbo-Jumboist, did not enter his mind.; All he considered was that the story of his dealings with Mike showed him, Firby-Smith, in the favourable and dashing character of the fellow-who-will-stand-no-nonsense, a sort of Captain Kettle on dry land, in fact; and so he proceeded to tell it in detail.
Burgess parted with him with the firm conviction that Mike was a young slacker.; Keenness in fielding was a fetish with him; and to cut practice struck him as a crime.
He felt that he had been deceived in Mike.
* * * * *
When, therefore, one takes into consideration his private bias in favour of Bob, and adds to it the reaction caused by this sudden unmasking of Mike, it is not surprising that the list Burgess made out that night before he went to bed differed in an important respect from the one he had intended to write before school.
Mike happened to be near the notice-board when he pinned it up.; It was only the pleasure of seeing his name down in black-and-white that made him trouble to look at the list.; Bob’s news of the day before yesterday had made it clear how that list would run.
The crowd that collected the moment Burgess had walked off carried him right up to the board.
He looked at the paper.
“Hard luck!” said somebody.
Mike scarcely heard him.
He felt physically sick with the shock of the disappointment.; For the initial before the name Jackson was R.
There was no possibility of mistake.; Since writing was invented, there had never been an R. that looked less like an M. than the one on that list.
Bob had beaten him on the tape.
CHAPTER XXI
MARJORY THE FRANK
At the door of the senior block Burgess, going out, met Bob coming in, hurrying, as he was rather late.
“Congratulate you, Bob,” he said; and passed on.
Bob stared after him.; As he stared, Trevor came out of the block.
“Congratulate you, Bob.”
“What’s the matter now?”
“Haven’t you seen?”
“Seen what?”
“Why the list.; You’ve got your first.”
“My—what? you’re rotting.”
“No, I’m not.; Go and look.”
The thing seemed incredible.; Had he dreamed that conversation between Spence and Burgess on the pavilion steps?; Had he mixed up the names?; He was certain that he had heard Spence give his verdict for Mike, and Burgess agree with him.
Just then, Mike, feeling very ill, came down the steps.; He caught sight of Bob and was passing with a feeble grin, when something told him that this was one of those occasions on which one has to show a Red Indian fortitude and stifle one’s private feelings.
“Congratulate you, Bob,” he said awkwardly.
“Thanks awfully,” said Bob, with equal awkwardness.; Trevor moved on, delicately.; This was no place for him.; Bob’s face was looking like a stuffed frog’s, which was Bob’s