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Mike: A Public School Story

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<h1>MIKE</h1> <h2>A PUBLIC SCHOOL STORY</h2> <h3>BY</h3> <h2>P. G. WODEHOUSE</h2> <hr> <h3 class="chap"> CHAPTER I MIKE</h3> It was a morning in the middle of April, and the Jackson family were consequently breakfasting in comparative silence.  The cricket season had not begun, and except during the cricket season they were in the habit of devoting their powerful minds at breakfast almost exclusively to the task of victualling against the labours of the day.  In May, June, July, and August the silence was broken.  The three grown-up Jacksons played regularly in first-class cricket, and there was always keen competition among their brothers and sisters for the copy of the Sportsman which was to be found on the hall table with the letters.  Whoever got it usually gloated over it in silence till urged wrathfully by the multitude to let them know what had happened; when it would appear that Joe had notched his seventh century, or that Reggie had been run out when he was just getting set, or, as sometimes occurred, that that ass Frank had dropped Fry or Hayward in the slips before he had scored, with the result that the spared expert had made a couple of hundred and was still going strong. In such a case the criticisms of the family circle, particularly of the smaller Jackson sisters, were so breezy and unrestrained that Mrs. Jackson generally felt it necessary to apply the closure.  Indeed, Marjory Jackson, aged fourteen, had on three several occasions been fined pudding at lunch for her caustic comments on the batting of her brother Reggie in important fixtures.  Cricket was a tradition in the family, and the ladies, unable to their sorrow to play the game themselves, were resolved that it should not be their fault if the standard was not kept up. On this particular morning silence reigned.  A deep gasp from some small Jackson, wrestling with bread-and-milk, and an occasional remark from Mr. Jackson on the letters he was reading, alone broke it. “Mike’s late again,” said Mrs. Jackson plaintively, at last. “He’s getting up,” said Marjory.  “I went in to see what he was doing, and he was asleep.  So,” she added with a satanic chuckle, “I squeezed a sponge over him.  He swallowed an awful lot, and then he woke up, and tried to catch me, so he’s certain to be down soon.” “Marjory!” “Well, he was on his back with his mouth wide open.  I had to.  He was snoring like anything.” “You might have choked him.” “I did,” said Marjory with satisfaction.  “Jam, please, Phyllis, you pig.” Mr. Jackson looked up. “Mike will have to be more punctual when he goes to Wrykyn,” he said. “Oh, father, is Mike going to Wrykyn?” asked Marjory.  “When?” “Next term,” said Mr. Jackson.  “I’ve just heard from Mr. Wain,” he added across the table to Mrs. Jackson.  “The house is full, but he is turning a small room into an extra dormitory, so he can take Mike after all.” The first comment on this momentous piece of news came from Bob Jackson.  Bob was eighteen.  The following term would be his last at Wrykyn, and, having won through so far without the infliction of a small brother, he disliked the prospect of not being allowed to finish as he had begun. “I say!” he said.  “What?” “He ought to have gone before,” said Mr. Jackson.  “He’s fifteen.  Much too old for that private school.  He has had it all his own way there, and it isn’t good for him.” “He’s got cheek enough for ten,” agreed Bob. “Wrykyn will do him a world of good.” “We aren’t in the same house.  That’s one comfort.” Bob was in Donaldson’s.  It softened the blow to a certain extent that Mike should be going to Wain’s.  He had the same feeling for Mike that most boys of eighteen have for their fifteen-year-old brothers.  He was fond of him in the abstract, but preferred him at a distance. Marjory gave tongue again.  She had rescued the jam from Phyllis, who had shown signs of finishing it, and was now at liberty to turn her mind to less pressing matters.  Mike was her special ally, and anything that affected his fortunes affected her. “Hooray!  Mike’s going to Wrykyn.  I bet he gets into the first eleven his first term.” “Considering there are eight old colours left,” said Bob loftily, “besides heaps of last year’s seconds, it’s hardly likely that a kid like Mike’ll get a look in.  He might get his third, if he sweats.” The aspersion stung Marjory. “I bet he gets in before you, anyway,” she said. Bob disdained to reply.  He was among those heaps of last year’s seconds to whom he had referred.  He was a sound bat, though lacking the brilliance of his elder brothers, and he fancied that his cap was a certainty this season.  Last year he had been tried once or twice.  This year it should be all right. Mrs. Jackson intervened. “Go on with your breakfast, Marjory,” she said.  “You mustn’t say ’I bet’ so much.” Marjory bit off a section of her slice of bread-and-jam. “Anyhow, I bet he does,” she muttered truculently through it. There was a sound of footsteps in the passage outside.  The door opened, and the missing member of the family appeared.  Mike Jackson was tall for his age.  His figure was thin and wiry.  His arms and legs looked a shade too long for his body.  He was evidently going to be very tall some day.  In face, he was curiously like his brother Joe, whose appearance is familiar to every one who takes an interest in first-class cricket.  The resemblance was even more marked on the cricket field.  Mike had Joe’s batting style to the last detail.  He was a pocket edition of his century-making brother.  “Hullo,” he said, “sorry I’m late.” This was mere stereo.  He had made the same remark nearly every morning since the beginning of the holidays. “All right, Marjory, you little beast,” was his reference to the sponge incident. His third remark was of a practical nature. “I say, what’s under that dish?” “Mike,” began Mr. Jackson—this again was stereo—“you really must learn to be more punctual——” He was interrupted by a chorus. “Mike, you’re going to Wrykyn next term,” shouted Marjory. “Mike, father’s just had a letter to say you’re going to Wrykyn next term.”  From Phyllis. “Mike, you’re going to Wrykyn.”  From Ella. Gladys Maud Evangeline, aged three, obliged with a solo of her own composition, in six-eight time, as follows:  “Mike Wryky.  Mike Wryky.  Mike Wryke Wryke Wryke Mike Wryke Wryke Mike Wryke Mike Wryke.” “Oh, put a green baize cloth over that kid, somebody,” groaned Bob. Whereat Gladys Maud, having fixed him with a chilly stare for some seconds, suddenly drew a long breath, and squealed deafeningly for more milk. Mike looked round the table.  It was a great moment.  He rose to it with the utmost dignity. “Good,” he said.  “I say, what’s under that dish?” <hr width="30%" align="center"> After breakfast, Mike and Marjory went off together to the meadow at the end of the garden.  Saunders, the professional, assisted by the gardener’s boy, was engaged in putting up the net.  Mr. Jackson believed in private coaching; and every spring since Joe, the eldest of the family, had been able to use a bat a man had come down from the Oval to teach him the best way to do so.  Each of the boys in turn had passed from spectators to active participants in the net practice in the meadow.  For several years now Saunders had been the chosen man, and his attitude towards the Jacksons was that of the Faithful Old Retainer in melodrama.  Mike was his special favourite.  He felt that in him he had material of the finest order to work upon.  There was nothing the matter with Bob.  In Bob he would turn out a good, sound article.  Bob would be a Blue in his third or fourth year, and probably a creditable performer among the rank and file of a county team later on.  But he was not a cricket genius, like Mike.  Saunders would lie awake at night sometimes thinking of the possibilities that were in Mike.  The strength could only come with years, but the style was there already.  Joe’s style, with improvements. Mike put on his pads; and Marjory walked with the professional to the bowling crease. “Mike’s going to Wrykyn next term, Saunders,” she said.  “All the boys were there, you know.  So was father, ages ago.” “Is he, miss?  I was thinking he would be soon.” “Do you think he’ll get into the school team?” “School team, miss!  Master Mike get into a school team!  He’ll be playing for England in another eight years.  That’s what he’ll be playing for.” “Yes, but I meant next term.  It would be a record if he did.  Even Joe only got in after he’d been at school two years.  Don’t you think he might, Saunders?  He’s awfully good, isn’t he?  He’s better than Bob, isn’t he?  And Bob’s almost certain to get in this term.” Saunders looked a little doubtful. “Next term!” he said.  “Well, you see, miss, it’s this way.  It’s all there, in a manner of speaking, with Master Mike.  He’s got as much style as Mr. Joe’s got, every bit.  The whole thing is, you see, miss, you get these young gentlemen of eighteen, and nineteen perhaps, and it stands to reason they’re stronger.  There’s a young gentleman, perhaps, doesn’t know as much about what I call real playing as Master Mike’s forgotten; but then he can hit ’em harder when he does hit ’em, and that’s where the runs come in.  They aren’t going to play Master Mike because he’ll be in the England team when he leaves school.  They’ll give the cap to somebody that can make a few then and there.” “But Mike’s jolly strong.” “Ah, I’m not saying it mightn’t be, miss.  I was only saying don’t count on it, so you won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t happen.  It’s quite likely that it will, only all I say is don’t count on it.  I only hope that they won’t knock all the style out of him before they’re done with him.  You know these school professionals, miss.” “No, I don’t, Saunders.  What are they like?” “Well, there’s too much of the come-right-out-at-everything about ’em for my taste.  Seem to think playing forward the alpha and omugger of batting.  They’ll make him pat balls back to the bowler which he’d cut for twos and threes if he was left to himself.  Still, we’ll hope for the best, miss.  Ready, Master Mike?  Play.” As Saunders had said, it was all there.  Of Mike’s style there could be no doubt.  To-day, too, he was playing more strongly than usual.  Marjory had to run to the end of the meadow to fetch one straight drive.  “He hit that hard enough, didn’t he, Saunders?” she asked, as she returned the ball. “If he could keep on doing ones like that, miss,” said the professional, “they’d have him in the team before you could say knife.” Marjory sat down again beside the net, and watched more hopefully. <h3 class="chap"> CHAPTER II THE JOURNEY DOWN</h3> The seeing off of Mike on the last day of the holidays was an imposing spectacle, a sort of pageant.  Going to a public school, especially at the beginning of the summer term, is no great hardship, more particularly when the departing hero has a brother on the verge of the school eleven and three other brothers playing for counties; and Mike seemed in no way disturbed by the prospect.  Mothers, however, to the end of time will foster a secret fear that their sons will be bullied at a big school, and Mrs. Jackson’s anxious look lent a fine solemnity to the proceedings. And as Marjory, Phyllis, and Ella invariably broke down when the time of separation arrived, and made no exception to their rule on the present occasion, a suitable gloom was the keynote of the gathering.  Mr. Jackson seemed to bear the parting with fortitude, as did Mike’s Uncle John (providentially roped in at the eleventh hour on his way to Scotland, in time to come down with a handsome tip).  To their coarse-fibred minds there was nothing pathetic or tragic about the affair at all. (At the very moment when the train began to glide out of the station Uncle John was heard to remark that, in his opinion, these Bocks weren’t a patch on the old shaped Larranaga.) Among others present might have been noticed Saunders, practising late cuts rather coyly with a walking-stick in the background; the village idiot, who had rolled up on the chance of a dole; Gladys Maud Evangeline’s nurse, smiling vaguely; and Gladys Maud Evangeline herself, frankly bored with the whole business. The train gathered speed.  The air was full of last messages.  Uncle John said on second thoughts he wasn’t sure these Bocks weren’t half a bad smoke after all.  Gladys Maud cried, because she had taken a sudden dislike to the village idiot; and Mike settled himself in the corner and opened a magazine. He was alone in the carriage.  Bob, who had been spending the last week of the holidays with an aunt further down the line, was to board the train at East Wobsley, and the brothers were to make a state entry into Wrykyn together.  Meanwhile, Mike was left to his milk chocolate, his magazines, and his reflections. The latter were not numerous, nor profound.  He was excited.  He had been petitioning the home authorities for the past year to be allowed to leave his private school and go to Wrykyn, and now the thing had come about.  He wondered what sort of a house Wain’s was, and whether they had any chance of the cricket cup.  According to Bob they had no earthly; but then Bob only recognised one house, Donaldson’s.  He wondered if Bob would get his first eleven cap this year, and if he himself were likely to do anything at cricket.  Marjory had faithfully reported every word Saunders had said on the subject, but Bob had been so careful to point out his insignificance when compared with the humblest Wrykynian that the professional’s glowing prophecies had not had much effect.  It might be true that some day he would play for England, but just at present he felt he would exchange his place in the team for one in the Wrykyn third eleven.  A sort of mist enveloped everything Wrykynian.  It seemed almost hopeless to try and compete with these unknown experts.  On the other hand, there was Bob.  Bob, by all accounts, was on the verge of the first eleven, and he was nothing special. While he was engaged on these reflections, the train drew up at a small station.  Opposite the door of Mike’s compartment was standing a boy of about Mike’s size, though evidently some years older.  He had a sharp face, with rather a prominent nose; and a pair of pince-nez gave him a supercilious look.  He wore a bowler hat, and carried a small portmanteau. He opened the door, and took the seat opposite to Mike, whom he scrutinised for a moment rather after the fashion of a naturalist examining some new and unpleasant variety of beetle.  He seemed about to make some remark, but, instead, got up and looked through the open window. “Where’s that porter?” Mike heard him say. The porter came skimming down the platform at that moment. “Porter.” “Sir?” “Are those frightful boxes of mine in all right?” “Yes, sir.” “Because, you know, there’ll be a frightful row if any of them get lost.” “No chance of that, sir.” “Here you are, then.” “Thank you, sir.” The youth drew his head and shoulders in, stared at Mike again, and finally sat down.  Mike noticed that he had nothing to read, and wondered if he wanted anything; but he did not feel equal to offering him one of his magazines.  He did not like the looks of him particularly.  Judging by appearances, he seemed to carry enough side for three.  If he wanted a magazine, thought Mike, let him ask for it. The other made no overtures, and at the next stop got out.  That explained his magazineless condition.  He was only travelling a short way. “Good business,” said Mike to himself.  He had all the Englishman’s love of a carriage to himself. The train was just moving out of the station when his eye was suddenly caught by the stranger’s bag, lying snugly in the rack. And here, I regret to say, Mike acted from the best motives, which is always fatal. He realised in an instant what had happened.  The fellow had forgotten his bag. Mike had not been greatly fascinated by the stranger’s looks; but, after all, the most supercilious person on earth has a right to his own property.  Besides, he might have been quite a nice fellow when you got to know him.  Anyhow, the bag had better be returned at once.  The train was already moving quite fast, and Mike’s compartment was nearing the end of the platform. He snatched the bag from the rack and hurled it out of the window.  (Porter Robinson, who happened to be in the line of fire, escaped with a flesh wound.) Then he sat down again with the inward glow of satisfaction which comes to one when one has risen successfully to a sudden emergency. <hr width="30%" align="center"> The glow lasted till the next stoppage, which did not occur for a good many miles.  Then it ceased abruptly, for the train had scarcely come to a standstill when the opening above the door was darkened by a head and shoulders.  The head was surmounted by a bowler, and a pair of pince-nez gleamed from the shadow. “Hullo, I say,” said the stranger.  “Have you changed carriages, or what?” “No,” said Mike. “Then, dash it, where’s my frightful bag?” Life teems with embarrassing situations.  This was one of them. “The fact is,” said Mike, “I chucked it out.” “Chucked it out! what do you mean?  When?” “At the last station.” The guard blew his whistle, and the other jumped into the carriage. “I thought you’d got out there for good,” explained Mike.  “I’m awfully sorry.” “Where is the bag?” “On the platform at the last station.  It hit a porter.” Against his will, for he wished to treat the matter with fitting solemnity, Mike grinned at the recollection.  The look on Porter Robinson’s face as the bag took him in the small of the back had been funny, though not intentionally so. The bereaved owner disapproved of this levity; and said as much. “Don’t grin, you little beast,” he shouted.  “There’s nothing to laugh at.  You go chucking bags that don’t belong to you out of the window, and then you have the frightful cheek to grin about it.” “It wasn’t that,” said Mike hurriedly.  “Only the porter looked awfully funny when it hit him.” “Dash the porter!  What’s going to happen about my bag?  I can’t get out for half a second to buy a magazine without your flinging my things about the platform.  What you want is a frightful kicking.” The situation was becoming difficult.  But fortunately at this moment the train stopped once again; and, looking out of the window, Mike saw a board with East Wobsley upon it in large letters.  A moment later Bob’s head appeared in the doorway. “Hullo, there you are,” said Bob. His eye fell upon Mike’s companion. “Hullo, Gazeka!” he exclaimed.  “Where did you spring from?  Do you know my brother?  He’s coming to Wrykyn this term.  By the way, rather lucky you’ve met.  He’s in your house.  Firby-Smith’s head of Wain’s, Mike.” Mike gathered that Gazeka and Firby-Smith were one and the same person.  He grinned again.  Firby-Smith continued to look ruffled, though not aggressive. “Oh, are you in Wain’s?” he said. “I say, Bob,” said Mike, “I’ve made rather an ass of myself.” “Naturally.” “I mean, what happened was this.  I chucked Firby-Smith’s portmanteau out of the window, thinking he’d got out, only he hadn’t really, and it’s at a station miles back.” “You’re a bit of a rotter, aren’t you?  Had it got your name and address on it, Gazeka?” “Yes.” “Oh, then it’s certain to be all right.  It’s bound to turn up some time.  They’ll send it on by the next train, and you’ll get it either to-night or to-morrow.” “Frightful nuisance, all the same.  Lots of things in it I wanted.” “Oh, never mind, it’s all right.  I say, what have you been doing in the holidays?  I didn’t know you lived on this line at all.” From this point onwards Mike was out of the conversation altogether.  Bob and Firby-Smith talked of Wrykyn, discussing events of the previous term of which Mike had never heard.  Names came into their conversation which were entirely new to him.  He realised that school politics were being talked, and that contributions from him to the dialogue were not required.  He took up his magazine again, listening the while.  They were discussing Wain’s now.  The name Wyatt cropped up with some frequency.  Wyatt was apparently something of a character.  Mention was made of rows in which he had played a part in the past. “It must be pretty rotten for him,” said Bob.  “He and Wain never get on very well, and yet they have to be together, holidays as well as term.  Pretty bad having a step-father at all—I shouldn’t care to—and when your house-master and your step-father are the same man, it’s a bit thick.” “Frightful,” agreed Firby-Smith. “I swear, if I were in Wyatt’s place, I should rot about like anything.  It isn’t as if he’d anything to look forward to when he leaves.  He told me last term that Wain had got a nomination for him in some beastly bank, and that he was going into it directly after the end of this term.  Rather rough on a chap like Wyatt.  Good cricketer and footballer, I mean, and all that sort of thing.  It’s just the sort of life he’ll hate most.  Hullo, here we are.” Mike looked out of the window.  It was Wrykyn at last. <h3 class="chap"> CHAPTER III MIKE FINDS A FRIENDLY NATIVE</h3> Mike was surprised to find, on alighting, that the platform was entirely free from Wrykynians.  In all the stories he had read the whole school came back by the same train, and, having smashed in one another’s hats and chaffed the porters, made their way to the school buildings in a solid column.  But here they were alone. A remark of Bob’s to Firby-Smith explained this.  “Can’t make out why none of the fellows came back by this train,” he said.  “Heaps of them must come by this line, and it’s the only Christian train they run,” “Don’t want to get here before the last minute they can possibly manage.  Silly idea.  I suppose they think there’d be nothing to do.” “What shall we do?” said Bob.  “Come and have some tea at Cook’s?” “All right.” Bob looked at Mike.  There was no disguising the fact that he would be in the way; but how convey this fact delicately to him? “Look here, Mike,” he said, with a happy inspiration, “Firby-Smith and I are just going to get some tea.  I think you’d better nip up to the school.  Probably Wain will want to see you, and tell you all about things, which is your dorm. and so on.  See you later,” he concluded airily.  “Any one’ll tell you the way to the school.  Go straight on.  They’ll send your luggage on later.  So long.”  And his sole prop in this world of strangers departed, leaving him to find his way for himself. There is no subject on which opinions differ so widely as this matter of finding the way to a place.  To the man who knows, it is simplicity itself.  Probably he really does imagine that he goes straight on, ignoring the fact that for him the choice of three roads, all more or less straight, has no perplexities.  The man who does not know feels as if he were in a maze. Mike started out boldly, and lost his way.  Go in which direction he would, he always seemed to arrive at a square with a fountain and an equestrian statue in its centre.  On the fourth repetition of this feat he stopped in a disheartened way, and looked about him.  He was beginning to feel bitter towards Bob.  The man might at least have shown him where to get some tea. At this moment a ray of hope shone through the gloom.  Crossing the square was a short, thick-set figure clad in grey flannel trousers, a blue blazer, and a straw hat with a coloured band.  Plainly a Wrykynian.  Mike made for him. “Can you tell me the way to the school, please,” he said. “Oh, you’re going to the school,” said the other.  He had a pleasant, square-jawed face, reminiscent of a good-tempered bull-dog, and a pair of very deep-set grey eyes which somehow put Mike at his ease.  There was something singularly cool and genial about them.  He felt that they saw the humour in things, and that their owner was a person who liked most people and whom most people liked. “You look rather lost,” said the stranger.  “Been hunting for it long?” “Yes,” said Mike. “Which house do you want?” “Wain’s.” “Wain’s?  Then you’ve come to the right man this time.  What I don’t know about Wain’s isn’t worth knowing.” “Are you there, too?” “Am I not!  Term and holidays.  There’s no close season for me.” “Oh, are you Wyatt, then?” asked Mike. “Hullo, this is fame.  How did you know my name, as the ass in the detective story always says to the detective, who’s seen it in the lining of his hat?  Who’s been talking about me?” “I heard my brother saying something about you in the train.” “Who’s your brother?” “Jackson.  He’s in Donaldson’s.” “I know.  A stout fellow.  So you’re the newest make of Jackson, latest model, with all the modern improvements?  Are there any more of you?” “Not brothers,” said Mike. “Pity.  You can’t quite raise a team, then?  Are you a sort of young Tyldesley, too?” “I played a bit at my last school.  Only a private school, you know,” added Mike modestly. “Make any runs?  What was your best score?” “Hundred and twenty-three,” said Mike awkwardly.  “It was only against kids, you know.”  He was in terror lest he should seem to be bragging. “That’s pretty useful.  Any more centuries?” “Yes,” said Mike, shuffling. “How many?” “Seven altogether.  You know, it was really awfully rotten bowling.  And I was a good bit bigger than most of the chaps there.  And my pater always has a pro. down in the Easter holidays, which gave me a bit of an advantage.” “All the same, seven centuries isn’t so dusty against any bowling.  We shall want some batting in the house this term.  Look here, I was just going to have some tea.  You come along, too.” “Oh, thanks awfully,” said Mike.  “My brother and Firby-Smith have gone to a place called Cook’s.” “The old Gazeka?  I didn’t know he lived in your part of the world.  He’s head of Wain’s.” “Yes, I know,” said Mike.  “Why is he called Gazeka?” he asked after a pause. “Don’t you think he looks like one?  What did you think of him?” “I didn’t speak to him much,” said Mike cautiously.  It is always delicate work answering a question like this unless one has some sort of an inkling as to the views of the questioner. “He’s all right,” said Wyatt, answering for himself.  “He’s got a habit of talking to one as if he were a prince of the blood dropping a gracious word to one of the three Small-Heads at the Hippodrome, but that’s his misfortune.  We all have our troubles.  That’s his.  Let’s go in here.  It’s too far to sweat to Cook’s.” It was about a mile from the tea-shop to the school.  Mike’s first impression on arriving at the school grounds was of his smallness and insignificance.  Everything looked so big—the buildings, the grounds, everything.  He felt out of the picture.  He was glad that he had met Wyatt.  To make his entrance into this strange land alone would have been more of an ordeal than he would have cared to face. “That’s Wain’s,” said Wyatt, pointing to one of half a dozen large houses which lined the road on the south side of the cricket field.  Mike followed his finger, and took in the size of his new home. “I say, it’s jolly big,” he said.  “How many fellows are there in it?” “Thirty-one this term, I believe.” “That’s more than there were at King-Hall’s.” “What’s King-Hall’s?” “The private school I was at.  At Emsworth.” Emsworth seemed very remote and unreal to him as he spoke. They skirted the cricket field, walking along the path that divided the two terraces.  The Wrykyn playing-fields were formed of a series of huge steps, cut out of the hill.  At the top of the hill came the school.  On the first terrace was a sort of informal practice ground, where, though no games were played on it, there was a good deal of punting and drop-kicking in the winter and fielding-practice in the summer.  The next terrace was the biggest of all, and formed the first eleven cricket ground, a beautiful piece of turf, a shade too narrow for its length, bounded on the terrace side by a sharply sloping bank, some fifteen feet deep, and on the other by the precipice leading to the next terrace.  At the far end of the ground stood the pavilion, and beside it a little ivy-covered rabbit-hutch for the scorers.  Old Wrykynians always claimed that it was the prettiest school ground in England.  It certainly had the finest view.  From the verandah of the pavilion you could look over three counties. Wain’s house wore an empty and desolate appearance.  There were signs of activity, however, inside; and a smell of soap and warm water told of preparations recently completed. Wyatt took Mike into the matron’s room, a small room opening out of the main passage. “This is Jackson,” he said.  “Which dormitory is he in, Miss Payne?” The matron consulted a paper. “He’s in yours, Wyatt.” “Good business.  Who’s in the other bed?  There are going to be three of us, aren’t there?” “Fereira was to have slept there, but we have just heard that he is not coming back this term.  He has had to go on a sea-voyage for his health.” “Seems queer any one actually taking the trouble to keep Fereira in the world,” said Wyatt.  “I’ve often thought of giving him Rough On Rats myself.  Come along, Jackson, and I’ll show you the room.” They went along the passage, and up a flight of stairs. “Here you are,” said Wyatt. It was a fair-sized room.  The window, heavily barred, looked out over a large garden. “I used to sleep here alone last term,” said Wyatt, “but the house is so full now they’ve turned it into a dormitory.” “I say, I wish these bars weren’t here.  It would be rather a rag to get out of the window on to that wall at night, and hop down into the garden and explore,” said Mike. Wyatt looked at him curiously, and moved to the window. “I’m not going to let you do it, of course,” he said, “because you’d go getting caught, and dropped on, which isn’t good for one in one’s first term; but just to amuse you——” He jerked at the middle bar, and the next moment he was standing with it in his hand, and the way to the garden was clear. “By Jove!” said Mike. “That’s simply an object-lesson, you know,” said Wyatt, replacing the bar, and pushing the screws back into their putty.  “I get out at night myself because I think my health needs it.  Besides, it’s my last term, anyhow, so it doesn’t matter what I do.  But if I find you trying to cut out in the small hours, there’ll be trouble.  See?” “All right,” said Mike, reluctantly.  “But I wish you’d let me.” “Not if I know it.  Promise you won’t try it on.” “All right.  But, I say, what do you do out there?” “I shoot at cats with an air-pistol, the beauty of which is that even if you hit them it doesn’t hurt—simply keeps them bright and interested in life; and if you miss you’ve had all the fun anyhow.  Have you ever shot at a rocketing cat?  Finest mark you can have.  Society’s latest craze.  Buy a pistol and see life.” “I wish you’d let me come.” “I daresay you do.  Not much, however.  Now, if you like, I’ll take you over the rest of the school.  You’ll have to see it sooner or later, so you may as well get it over at once.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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