CHAPTER XVII
ANOTHER VACANCY
Wyatt got back late that night, arriving at the dormitory as Mike wasgoing to bed.
"By Jove, I'm done," he said. "It was simply baking at Geddington. AndI came back in a carriage with Neville-Smith and Ellerby, and theyragged the whole time. I wanted to go to sleep, only they wouldn't letme. Old Smith was awfully bucked because he'd taken four wickets. Ishould think he'd go off his nut if he took eight ever. He was singingcomic songs when he wasn't trying to put Ellerby under the seat. How'syour wrist?"
"Oh, better, thanks."
Wyatt began to undress.
"Any colours?" asked Mike after a pause. First eleven colours weregenerally given in the pavilion after a match or on the journey home.
"No. Only one or two thirds. Jenkins and Clephane, and another chap,can't remember who. No first, though."
"What was Bob's innings like?"
"Not bad. A bit lucky. He ought to have been out before he'd scored,and he was out when he'd made about sixteen, only the umpire didn'tseem to know that it's l-b-w when you get your leg right in front ofthe wicket and the ball hits it. Never saw a clearer case in my life.I was in at the other end. Bit rotten for the Geddington chaps. Justlost them the match. Their umpire, too. Bit of luck for Bob. He didn'tgive the ghost of a chance after that."
"I should have thought they'd have given him his colours."
"Most captains would have done, only Burgess is so keen on fieldingthat he rather keeps off it."
"Why, did he field badly?"
"Rottenly. And the man always will choose Billy's bowling to dropcatches off. And Billy would cut his rich uncle from Australia if hekept on dropping them off him. Bob's fielding's perfectly sinful. Hewas pretty bad at the beginning of the season, but now he's got sonervous that he's a dozen times worse. He turns a delicate green whenhe sees a catch coming. He let their best man off twice in one over,off Billy, to-day; and the chap went on and made a hundred odd.Ripping innings bar those two chances. I hear he's got an average ofeighty in school matches this season. Beastly man to bowl to. Knockedme off in half a dozen overs. And, when he does give a couple of easychances, Bob puts them both on the floor. Billy wouldn't have givenhim his cap after the match if he'd made a hundred. Bob's the sort ofman who wouldn't catch a ball if you handed it to him on a plate, withwatercress round it."
Burgess, reviewing the match that night, as he lay awake in hiscubicle, had come to much the same conclusion. He was very fond ofBob, but two missed catches in one over was straining the bonds ofhuman affection too far. There would have been serious trouble betweenDavid and Jonathan if either had persisted in dropping catches off theother's bowling. He writhed in bed as he remembered the second of thetwo chances which the wretched Bob had refused. The scene wasindelibly printed on his mind. Chap had got a late cut which hefancied rather. With great guile he had fed this late cut. Sent down acouple which he put to the boundary. Then fired a third much fasterand a bit shorter. Chap had a go at it, just as he had expected: andhe felt that life was a good thing after all when the ball justtouched the corner of the bat and flew into Bob's hands. And Bobdropped it!
The memory was too bitter. If he dwelt on it, he felt, he would getinsomnia. So he turned to pleasanter reflections: the yorker which hadshattered the second-wicket man, and the slow head-ball which had ledto a big hitter being caught on the boundary. Soothed by thesememories, he fell asleep.
Next morning he found himself in a softened frame of mind. He thoughtof Bob's iniquities with sorrow rather than wrath. He felt towards himmuch as a father feels towards a prodigal son whom there is still achance of reforming. He overtook Bob on his way to chapel.
Directness was always one of Burgess's leading qualities.
"Look here, Bob. About your fielding. It's simply awful."
Bob was all remorse.
"It's those beastly slip catches. I can't time them."
"That one yesterday was right into your hands. Both of them were."
"I know. I'm frightfully sorry."
"Well, but I mean, why _can't_ you hold them? It's no good beinga good bat--you're that all right--if you're going to give away runsin the field."
"Do you know, I believe I should do better in the deep. I could gettime to watch them there. I wish you'd give me a shot in the deep--forthe second."
"Second be blowed! I want your batting in the first. Do you thinkyou'd really do better in the deep?"
"I'm almost certain I should. I'll practise like mad. Trevor'll hit meup catches. I hate the slips. I get in the dickens of a funk directlythe bowler starts his run now. I know that if a catch does come, Ishall miss it. I'm certain the deep would be much better."
"All right then. Try it."
The conversation turned to less pressing topics.
* * * * *
In the next two matches, accordingly, Bob figured on the boundary,where he had not much to do except throw the ball back to the bowler,and stop an occasional drive along the carpet. The beauty of fieldingin the deep is that no unpleasant surprises can be sprung upon one.There is just that moment or two for collecting one's thoughts whichmakes the whole difference. Bob, as he stood regarding the game fromafar, found his self-confidence returning slowly, drop by drop.
As for Mike, he played for the second, and hoped for the day.
* * * * *
His opportunity came at last. It will be remembered that on themorning after the Great Picnic the headmaster made an announcement inHall to the effect that, owing to an outbreak of chicken-pox in thetown, all streets except the High Street would be out of bounds. Thisdid not affect the bulk of the school, for most of the shops to whichany one ever thought of going were in the High Street. But there werecertain inquiring minds who liked to ferret about in odd corners.
Among these was one Leather-Twigg, of Seymour's, better known incriminal circles as Shoeblossom.
Shoeblossom was a curious mixture of the Energetic Ragger and theQuiet Student. On a Monday evening you would hear a hideous uproarproceeding from Seymour's junior day-room; and, going down with aswagger-stick to investigate, you would find a tangled heap ofsquealing humanity on the floor, and at the bottom of the heap,squealing louder than any two others, would be Shoeblossom, his collarburst and blackened and his face apoplectically crimson. On theTuesday afternoon, strolling in some shady corner of the grounds youwould come upon him lying on his chest, deep in some work of fictionand resentful of interruption. On the Wednesday morning he would be inreceipt of four hundred lines from his housemaster for breaking threewindows and a gas-globe. Essentially a man of moods, Shoeblossom.
It happened about the date of the Geddington match that he took outfrom the school library a copy of "The Iron Pirate," and for the nextday or two he wandered about like a lost spirit trying to find asequestered spot in which to read it. His inability to hit on such aspot was rendered more irritating by the fact that, to judge from thefirst few chapters (which he had managed to get through during prep.one night under the eye of a short-sighted master), the book wasobviously the last word in hot stuff. He tried the junior day-room,but people threw cushions at him. He tried out of doors, and a ballhit from a neighbouring net nearly scalped him. Anything in the natureof concentration became impossible in these circumstances.
Then he recollected that in a quiet backwater off the High Streetthere was a little confectioner's shop, where tea might be had at areasonable sum, and also, what was more important, peace.
He made his way there, and in the dingy back shop, all amongst thedust and bluebottles, settled down to a thoughtful perusal of chaptersix.
Upstairs, at the same moment, the doctor was recommending that MasterJohn George, the son of the house, be kept warm and out of draughtsand not permitted to scratch himself, however necessary such an actionmight seem to him. In brief, he was attending J. G. for chicken-pox.
Shoeblossom came away, entering the High Street furt
ively, lestAuthority should see him out of bounds, and returned to the school,where he went about his lawful occasions as if there were no suchthing as chicken-pox in the world.
But all the while the microbe was getting in some unostentatious butclever work. A week later Shoeblossom began to feel queer. He hadoccasional headaches, and found himself oppressed by a queer distastefor food. The professional advice of Dr. Oakes, the school doctor, wascalled for, and Shoeblossom took up his abode in the Infirmary, wherehe read _Punch_, sucked oranges, and thought of Life.
Two days later Barry felt queer. He, too, disappeared from Society.
Chicken-pox is no respecter of persons. The next victim was Marsh, ofthe first eleven. Marsh, who was top of the school averages. Wherewere his drives now, his late cuts that were wont to set the pavilionin a roar. Wrapped in a blanket, and looking like the spotted marvelof a travelling circus, he was driven across to the Infirmary in afour-wheeler, and it became incumbent upon Burgess to select asubstitute for him.
And so it came about that Mike soared once again into the ranks of theelect, and found his name down in the team to play against theIncogniti.
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