Mike at Wrykyn (16 page)

When he
woke it seemed even less attractive than it had done when he went to sleep. He
had banged his head on the pillow six times over-night, and this silent alarm
proved effective, as it always does. Reaching out a hand for his watch, he
found that it was five minutes past six.

This
was to the good. He could manage another quarter of an hour between the sheets.
It would only take him ten minutes to wash and get into his flannels.

He took
his quarter of an hour, and a little more. He woke from a sort of doze to find
that it was twenty-five past.

Man’s
inability to get out of bed in the morning is a curious thing. One may reason
with oneself clearly and forcibly without the slightest effect. One knows that
delay means inconvenience. Perhaps it may spoil one’s whole day. And one also
knows that a single resolute heave will do the trick. But logic is of no use.
One simply lies there.

Mike
thought he would take another minute.

And
during that minute there floated into his mind the question: Who
was
Firby-Smith?
That was the point. Who
was
he, after all?

This
started quite a new train of thought. Previously Mike had firmly intended to
get up—some time. Now he began to waver.

The
more he considered the Gazeka’s insignificance and futility and his own
magnificence, the more outrageous did it seem that he should be dragged out of
bed to please Firby-Smith’s vapid mind. Here was he, about to receive his first
eleven colours on this very day probably, being ordered about,
inconvenienced—in short, put upon by a worm who had only just scraped into the
third.

Was
this right? he asked himself. Was this proper?

And the
hands of the watch moved round to twenty to.

What
was the matter with his fielding?
It
was all right. Make the rest of the
team fag about, yes. But not a chap who, dash it all, had got his first for fielding
!

It was
with almost a feeling of self-righteousness that Mike turned over on his side
and went to sleep again.

And
outside in the cricket field, the massive mind of the Gazeka was filled with
rage, as it was gradually borne in upon him that this was not a question of
mere lateness— which, he felt, would be bad enough, for when he said six-thirty
he meant six-thirty—but of actual desertion. It was time, he said to himself,
that the foot of Authority was set firmly down, and the strong right hand of
Justice allowed to put in some energetic work. His comments on the team’s fielding
that morning were bitter and sarcastic. His eyes gleamed behind their
pince-nez.

The
painful interview took place after breakfast. The head of the house dispatched
his fag in search of Mike, and waited. He paced up and down the room like a
hungry lion, adjusting his pince-nez (a thing, by the way, which lions seldom
do) and behaving in other respects like a monarch of the desert. One would have
felt, looking at him, that Mike, in coming to his den, was doing a deed which
would make the achievement of Daniel seem in comparison like the tentative
effort of some timid novice.

And
certainly Mike was not without qualms as he knocked at the door, and went in in
response to the hoarse roar from the other side of it.

Firby-Smith
straightened his tie, and glared.

“Young
Jackson,” he said, “look here, I want to know what it all means, and jolly
quick. You weren’t at house-fielding this morning. Didn’t you see the notice?”

Mike
admitted that he had seen the notice.

“Then
you frightful kid, what do you mean by it? What?” Mike hesitated. Awfully
embarrassing, this. His real reason for not turning up to house-fielding was
that he considered himself above such things, and Firby-Smith a toothy weed.
Could he give this excuse? He had not his Book of Etiquette by him at the
moment, but he rather fancied not. There was no arguing against the fact that
the head of the house
was
a toothy weed; but he felt a firm conviction
that it would not be polite to say so.

Happy
thought: over-slept himself.

He
mentioned this.

“Over-slept
yourself! You must jolly well not oversleep yourself. What do you mean by
over-sleeping yourself?”

Very
trying this sort of thing.

“What
time did you wake up?”

“Six,”
said Mike.

It was
not according to his complicated, yet intelligible code of morality to tell
lies to save himself. When others were concerned he could suppress the true and
suggest the false with a face of brass.

“Six!”

“Five
past.”

“Why
didn’t you get up then?”

“I went
to sleep again.”

“Oh,
you went to sleep again, did you? Well, just listen to me. I’ve had my eye on
you for some time, and I’ve seen it coming on. You’ve got swelled head, young
man. That’s what you’ve got. Frightful swelled head. You think the place
belongs to you.”

“I
don’t,” said Mike indignantly.

“Yes,
you do,” said the Gazeka shrilly. “You think the whole frightful place belongs
to you. You go stalking about as if you’d bought it. Just because you’ve got
your second, you think you can do what you like; turn up or not, as you please.
It doesn’t matter whether I’m only in the third and you’re in the first. That’s
got nothing to do with it. The point is that you’re one of the house team, and
I’m captain of it, so you’ve jolly well got to turn out for fielding with the
others when I think it necessary. See?”

Mike
said nothing.

“Do—you—see,
you frightful kid?”

Mike
remained stonily silent. The rather large grain of truth in what Firby-Smith
had said had gone home, as the unpleasant truth about ourselves is apt to do;
and his feelings were hurt. He was determined not to give in and say that he
saw even if the head of the house invoked all the majesty of the prefects’ room
to help him, as he had nearly done once before. He set his teeth, and stared at
a photograph on the wall.

Firby-Smith’s
manner became ominously calm. He produced a swagger-stick from a corner.

“Do you
see?” he asked again.

Mike’s
jaw set more tightly.

What
one really wants here is a row of stars.

Mike was still full of his
injuries when Wyatt came back. Wyatt was worn out, but cheerful. The school had
finished sixth for the Ashburton, which was an improvement of eight places on
their last year’s form, and he himself had scored thirty at the two hundred and
twenty-seven at the five hundred totals, which had put him in a very good
humour with the world.

“Me ancient
skill has not deserted me,” he said, “that’s the cats. The man who can wing a
cat by moonlight can put a bullet where he likes on a target. I didn’t hit the
bull every time, but that was to give the other fellows a chance. My fatal
modesty has always been a hindrance to me in life, and I suppose it always will
be. Well, well! And what of the old homestead? Anything happened since I went
away? Me old father, is he well? Has the lost will been discovered, or is there
a mortgage on the family estates? By Jove, I’m thirsty, I wonder if the moke’s
gone to bed yet. I’ll go down and look. A jug of water drawn from the well in
the old courtyard where my ancestors have played as children for centuries back
would just about save my life.”

He left
the dormitory, and Mike began to brood over his wrongs once more.

Wyatt
came back, brandishing a jug of water and a glass.

“Oh,
for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene!
Have you ever tasted Hippocrene, young Jackson? Rather like ginger-beer, with a
dash of raspberry-vinegar. Very heady. Failing that, water will do. A-ah!”

He put
down the glass, and surveyed Mike, who had maintained a moody silence
throughout this speech.

“What’s
your trouble?” he asked. “For pains in the back try Ju-jar. If it’s a broken
heart, Zam-buk’s what you want. Who’s been quarrelling with you?”

“It’s
only that ass Firby-Smith.”

“Again!
I never saw such chaps as you two. Always at it. What was the trouble this
time? Call him a grinning ape again? Your passion for the truth’ll be getting
you into trouble one of these days.”

“He
said I stuck on side.”

“Why?”

“I
don’t know.”

“I
mean, did he buttonhole you on your way to school, and say, ‘Jackson, a word in
your ear. You stick on side.’ Or did he lead up to it in any way? Did he say,
‘Talking of side, you stick it on.’ What had you been doing to him?”

“It was
the house-fielding.”

“But
you can’t stick on side at house-fielding. I defy anyone to. It’s too early in
the morning.”

“I
didn’t turn up.”

“What!
Why?”

“Oh, I
don’t know.”

“No,
but, look here, really. Did you simply cut it?”

“Yes.”

Wyatt
leaned on the end of Mike’s bed, and, having observed its occupant thoughtfully
for a moment, proceeded to speak wisdom for the good of his soul.

“I say,
I don’t want to jaw—I’m one of those quiet chaps with strong, silent natures;
you may have noticed it— but I must put in a well-chosen word at this juncture.
Don’t pretend to be dropping off to sleep. Sit up and listen to what your kind
old uncle’s got to say to you about manners and deportment. Otherwise, blood as
you are at cricket, you’ll have a rotten time here. There are some things you
simply can’t do; and one of them is cutting a thing when you’re put down for
it. It doesn’t matter who it is puts you down. If he’s captain, you’ve got to
obey him. That’s discipline, that ‘ere is. The speaker then paused, and took a
sip of water from the carafe which stood at his elbow. Cheers from the
audience, and a voice ‘Hear! Hear!”’

Mike
rolled over in bed and glared up at the orator. Most of his face was covered by
the water-jug, but his eyes stared fixedly from above it. He winked in a
friendly way, and, putting down the jug, drew a deep breath.

“Nothing
like this old ‘87 water,” he said. “Such body.”

“I like
you jawing about discipline,” said Mike morosely. “And why, my gentle che-ild,
should I not talk about discipline?”

“Considering
you break out of the house nearly every night.”

“In
passing, rather rum when you think that a burglar would get it hot for breaking
in, while I get dropped on if I break out. Why should there be one law for the
burglar and one for me? But you were saying—just so. I thank you. About my
breaking out. When you’re a white-haired old man like me, young Jackson, you’ll
see that there are two sorts of discipline at school. One you can break if you
feel like taking the risks; the other you mustn’t ever break. I don’t know why,
but it isn’t done. Until you learn that, you can never hope to become the
Perfect Wrykynian like,” he concluded modestly, “me.”

Mike
made no reply. He would have perished rather than admit it, but Wyatt’s words
had sunk in. That moment marked a distinct epoch in his career. His feelings
were curiously mixed. He was still furious with Firby-Smith, yet at the same
time he could not help acknowledging to himself that the latter had had the
right on his side. He saw and approved of Wyatt’s point of view, which was the
more impressive to him from his knowledge of his friend’s contempt for, or,
rather, cheerful disregard of, most forms of law and order. If Wyatt, reckless
though he was as regarded written school rules, held so rigid a respect for
those that were unwritten, these last must be things which could not be treated
lightly. That night, for the first time in his life, Mike went to sleep with a
clear idea of what the public school spirit, of which so much is talked and
written, really meant.

CHAPTER
XX

THE TEAM IS FILLED UP

WHEN Burgess, at the end
of the conversation in the pavilion with Mr. Spence which Bob Jackson had
overheard, accompanied the cricket-master across the field to the
boarding-houses, he had distinctly made up his mind to give Mike his first
eleven colours next day. There was only one more match to be played before the
school fixture-list was finished. That was the match with Ripton. Both at
cricket and rugger Ripton was the school that mattered most. Wrykyn did not
always win its other school matches; but it generally did. The public schools
of England divide themselves naturally into little groups, as far as games are
concerned. Harrow, Eton, and Winchester are one group: Westminster and
Charterhouse another: Bedford, Tonbridge, Dulwich, Haileybury and St. Paul’s
are a third. In this way, Wrykyn, Ripton, Geddington, and Wilborough formed a
group. There was no actual championship competition, but each played each, and
by the end of the season it was easy to see which was entitled to first place.
This nearly always lay between Ripton and Wrykyn. Sometimes an exceptional
Geddington team would sweep the board, or Wrykyn, having beaten Ripton, would
go down before Wilborough. But this did not happen often. Usually Wilborough
and Geddington were left to scramble for the wooden spoon.