Mike at Wrykyn by P.G. Wodehouse Read Free Book Online Page B

sixty-three not out against Kent in this morning’s
paper. What happened?”
    “I
didn’t get a paper either. I didn’t mean that brother. I meant the one here.”
    “Oh,
Mike? What’s Mike been up to?”
    “Nothing
as yet, that I know of; but, I say, you know, he seems a great pal of Wyatt’s.”
    “I
know. I spoke to him about it.”
    “Oh,
you did? That’s all right, then.”
    “Not
that there’s anything wrong with Wyatt.”
    “Not a
bit. Only he is rather mucking about this term, I hear. It’s his last, so I
suppose he wants to have a rag.”
    “Don’t
blame him.”
    “Nor do
I. Rather rot, though, if he lugged your brother into a row by accident.”
    “I
should get blamed. I think I’ll speak to him again.”
    “I
should, I think.”
    “I hope
he isn’t idiot enough to go out at night with Wyatt. If Wyatt likes to risk it,
all right. That’s his look out. But it won’t do for Mike to go playing the goat
too.”
    “Clowes
suggested putting Firby-Smith on to him. He’d have more chance, being in the
same house, of seeing that he didn’t come a mucker than you would.”
    “I’ve
done that. Smith said he’d speak to him.”
    “That’s
all right then. Is that a new bat?“
    “Got it
today. Smashed my other yesterday—against the School House.”
    Donaldson’s
had played a friendly with the School House during the last two days, and had
beaten them.
    “I
thought I heard it go. You were rather in form.”
    “Better
than at the beginning of the term, anyhow. I simply couldn’t do a thing then.
But my last three innings have been 33 not out, 18, and 51.”
    “I
should think you’re bound to get your first all right.”
    “Hope
so. I see Mike’s playing for the second against the O.W.s.”
    “Yes. Pretty
good for his first term. You have a pro to coach you in the holidays, don’t
you?”
    “Yes. I
didn’t go to him much this last time. I was away a lot. But Mike fairly lived
inside the net.”
    “Well,
it’s not been chucked away. I suppose he’ll get his first next year. There’ll
be a big clearing-out of colours at the end of this term. Nearly all the first
are leaving. Henfrey’ll be captain, I expect.”
    “Saunders,
the pro at home, always says that Mike’s going to be the star cricketer of the
family. Better than J.W. even, he thinks. I asked him what he thought of me,
and he said, ‘You’ll be making a lot of runs some day, Mr. Bob.’ There’s a
subtle difference, isn’t there? I shall have Mike cutting me out before I leave
school if I’m not careful.”
    “Sort
of infant prodigy,” said Trevor. “Don’t think he’s quite up to it yet, though.”
    He went
back to his study, and Bob, having finished his oiling and washed his hands,
started on his Thucydides. And, in the stress of wrestling with the speech of
an apparently delirious Athenian general, whose remarks seemed to contain
nothing even remotely resembling sense and coherence, he allowed the question
of Mike’s welfare to fade from his mind like a dissolving view.

 
     
     
    CHAPTER
VIII
     
    A ROW WITH THE TOWN
     
    THE beginning of a big
row, one of those rows which turn a school upside down like a volcanic eruption
and provide old boys with something to talk about, when they meet, for years,
is not unlike the beginning of a thunderstorm.
    You are
walking along one seemingly fine day, when suddenly there is a hush, and there
falls on you from space one big drop. The next moment the thing has begun, and
you are standing in a shower-bath. It is just the same with a row. Some trivial
episode occurs, and in an instant the place is in a ferment. It was so with the
great picnic at Wrykyn.
    The
bare outlines of the beginning of this affair are included in a letter which
Mike wrote to his father on the Sunday following the Old Wrykynian matches.
    This
was the letter:
     
    “DEAR FATHER,
    “Thanks awfully for your letter. I hope you are quite well. I have
been getting on all right at cricket lately. My