“How do you mean?” said Mike.
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, is it all rot, or did you—you know what I mean— sham a crocked wrist?”
“Yes,” said Mike, “I did.”
Bob stared gloomily at his toes.
“I mean,” he said at last, apparently putting the finishing touch to some train of thought, “I know I ought to be grateful, and all that. I suppose I am. I mean it was jolly good of you— Dash it all,” he broke off hotly, as if the putting his position into words had suddenly showed him how inglorious it was, “what did you want to do it for? What was the idea? What right have you got to go about playing Providence over me? Dash it all, it’s like giving a fellow money without consulting him.”
“I didn’t think you’d ever know. You wouldn’t have if only that ass Uncle John hadn’t let it out.”
“How did he get to know? Why did you tell him?”
“He got it out of me. I couldn’t choke him off. He came down when you were away at Geddington, and would insist on having a look at my arm, and naturally he spotted right away there was nothing the matter with it. So it came out; that’s how it was.”
Bob scratched thoughtfully at the turf with a spike of his boot.
“Of course, it was awfully decent—”
Then again the monstrous nature of the affair came home to him.
“But what did you do it for? Why should you ruin your own chances to give me a look in?”
“Oh, I don’t know…. You know, you did me a jolly good turn.”
“I don’t remember. When?”
“That Firby-Smith business.”
“What about it?”
“Well, you got me out of a jolly bad hole.”
“Oh, rot! And do you mean to tell me it was simply because of that—?”
Mike appeared to him in a totally new light. He stared at him as if he were some strange creature hitherto unknown to the human race. Mike shuffled uneasily beneath the scrutiny.
“Anyhow, it’s all over now,” Mike said, “so I don’t see what’s the point of talking about it.”
“I’m hanged if it is. You don’t think I’m going to sit tight and take my first as if nothing had happened?”
“What can you do? The list’s up. Are you going to the Old Man to ask him if I can play, like Lionel Tremayne?”
The hopelessness of the situation came over Bob like a wave. He looked helplessly at Mike.
“Besides,” added Mike, “I shall get in next year all right. Half a second, I just want to speak to Wyatt about something.”
He sidled off.
“Well, anyhow,” said Bob to himself, “I must see Burgess about it.”
CHAPTER XXII
WYATT IS REMINDED OF AN ENGAGEMENT
THERE are situations in life which are beyond one. The sensible man realizes this, and slides out of such situations, admitting himself beaten. Others try to grapple with them, but it never does any good. When affairs get into a real tangle, it is best to sit still and let them straighten themselves out. Or, if one does not do that, simply to think no more about them. This is Philosophy. The true philosopher is the man who says “All right,” and goes to sleep in his arm-chair. One’s attitude towards Life’s Little Difficulties should be that of the gentleman in the fable, who sat down on an acorn one day, and happened to doze. The warmth of his body caused the acorn to germinate, and it grew so rapidly that, when he awoke, he found himself sitting in the fork of an oak, sixty feet from the ground. He thought he would go home, but, finding this impossible, he altered his plans. “Well, well,” he said, “if I cannot compel circumstances to my will, I can at least adapt my will to circumstances. I decide to remain here.” Which he did, and had a not unpleasant time. The oak lacked some of the comforts of home, but the air was splendid and the view excellent.
Today’s Great Thought for Young Readers. Imitate this man.
Bob should have done so, but he had not the necessary amount of philosophy. He still clung to the idea that he and Burgess, in council, might find some way of making things right for everybody. Though, at the moment, he did not see how eleven caps were to be divided amongst twelve candidates in such a way that each should have one.
And Burgess, consulted on the point, confessed to the same inability to solve the problem. It took Bob at least a quarter of an hour to get the facts of the case into the captain’s head, but at last Burgess grasped the idea of the thing. At which period he remarked that it was a rum business.
“Very rum,” Bob agreed. “Still, what you say doesn’t help us out much, seeing that the point is, what’s to be done?”
“Why do anything?”
Burgess was a philosopher, and took the line of least resistance, like the man in the oak-tree.
“But I must do something,” said Bob. “Can’t you see how rotten it is for me?”
“I don’t see why. It’s not your fault. Very sporting of your brother and all that, of course, though I’m blowed if I’d have done it myself; but why should you do anything? You’re all right. Your brother stood out of the team to let you in it, and here you are, in it. What’s he got to grumble about?”
“He’s not grumbling. It’s me.”
“What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want your first?”
“Not like this. Can’t you see what a rotten position it is for me?”
“Don’t you worry. You simply keep on saying you’re all right. Besides, what do you want me to do? Alter the list?”
But for the thought of those unspeakable outsiders, Lionel Treymayne and his headmaster, Bob might have answered this question in the affirmative: but he had the public school boy’s terror of seeming to pose or do anything theatrical. He would have done a good deal to put matters right, but he could not do the self-sacrificing young hero business. It would not be in the picture. These things, if they are to be done at school, have to be carried through stealthily, after Mike’s fashion.
“I suppose you can’t very well, now it’s up. Tell you what, though, I don’t see why I shouldn’t stand out of the team for the Ripton match. I could easily fake up some excuse.”
“I do. I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, but the idea is rather to win the Ripton match, if possible. So that I’m a lot keen on putting the best team into the field. Sorry if it upsets your arrangements in any way.”
“You know perfectly well Mike’s every bit as good as me.”
“He isn’t so keen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fielding. He’s a young slacker.”
When Burgess had once labelled a man as that, he did not readily let the idea out of his mind.
“Slacker? What rot! He’s as keen as anything.”
“Anyhow, his keenness isn’t enough to make him turn out for house-fielding. If you really want to know, that’s why you’ve got your first instead of him. You sweated away, and improved your fielding twenty per cent; and I happened to be talking to Firby-Smith and found that young Mike had been shirking his, so out he went. A bad field’s bad enough, but a slack field wants skinning.”
“Smith oughtn’t to have told you.”
“Well, he did tell me. So you see how it is. There won’t be any changes from the team I’ve put up on the board.”
“Oh, all right,” said Bob. “I was afraid you mightn’t be able to do anything. So long.”
“Mind the step,” said Burgess.
At about the time when this conversation was in progress, Wyatt, crossing the cricket field towards the school shop in search of something fizzy that might correct a burning thirst acquired at the nets, espied on the horizon a suit of cricket flannels surmounted by a huge, expansive grin. As the distance between them lessened, he discovered that inside the flannels was Neville-Smith’s body and behind the grin the rest of Neville-Smith’s face. Their visit to the nets not having coincided in point of time, as the Greek exercise books say, Wyatt had not seen his friend
since the list of the team had been posted on the board, so he proceeded to congratulate him on his colours.
“Thanks,” said Neville-Smith, with a brilliant display of front teeth.
“Feeling good?”
“Not the word for it. I feel like—I don’t know what.”
“I’ll tell you what you look like, if that’s any good to you. That slight smile of yours will meet behind, if you don’t look out, and then the top of your head’ll come off.”
“I don’t care. I’ve got my first, whatever happens. Little Willie’s going to buy a nice new cap and a pretty striped jacket all for his own self! I say, thanks for reminding me. Not that you did, but supposing you had. At any rate, I remember what it was I wanted to say to you. You know what I was saying to you about the bust-up I meant to have at home in honour of my getting my first, if I did, which I have—well anyhow it’s tonight. You can roll up, can’t you?”
“Delighted. Anything for a free feed in these hard times. What time did you say it was?”
“Eleven. Make it a bit earlier, if you like.”
“No, eleven’ll do me all right.”
“How are you going to get out?”
“‘Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.’ That’s what the man said who wrote the libretto for the last set of Latin Verses we had to do. I shall manage it.”
“They ought to allow you a latch—key.”
“Yes, I’ve often thought of asking my father for one. Still, I get on very well. Who are coming besides me?”
“No boarders. They all funked it.”
“The race is degenerating.”
“Said it wasn’t good enough.”
“The school is going to the dogs. Who did you ask?”
“Clowes was one. Said he didn’t want to miss his beauty sleep. And Henfrey backed out because he thought the risk of being sacked wasn’t good enough.”
“That’s an aspect of the thing that might occur to some people. I don’t blame him—I might feel like that myself if I’d got another couple of years at school.”
“But one or two day-boys are coming. Clephane is, for one. And Beverley. We shall have rather a rag. I’m going to get the things now.”
“When I get to your place—I don’t believe I know the way, now I come to think of it—what do I do? Ring the bell and send in my card? Or smash the nearest window and climb in?”
“Don’t make too much row, for goodness’ sake. All the servants’ll have gone to bed. You’ll see the window of my room. It’s just above the porch. It’ll be the only one lighted up. Heave a pebble at it, and I’ll come down.”
“So will the glass—with a run, I expect. Still, I’ll try to do as little damage as possible. After all, I needn’t throw a brick.”
“You will turn up, won’t you?”
“Nothing shall stop me.”
“Good man.”
As Wyatt was turning away, a sudden compunction seized upon Neville-Smith. He called him back.
“I say, you don’t think it’s too risky, do you? I mean, you always are breaking out at night, aren’t you? I don’t want to get you into a row.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Wyatt. “Don’t you worry about me. I should have gone out anyhow tonight.”
CHAPTER XXIII
A SURPRISE FOR MR. APPLEBY
“YOU may not know it,” said Wyatt to Mike in the dormitory that night, “but this is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year.”
Mike could not help thinking that for himself it was the very reverse, but he did not state his view of the case.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Neville-Smith’s giving a meal at his place in honour of his getting his first. I understand the preparations are on a scale of the utmost magnificence. No expense has been spared. Ginger-beer will flow like water. The oldest cask of lemonade has been broached; and a sardine is roasting whole in the market-place.”
“Are you going?”
“If I cam tear myself away from your delightful society. The kick-off is fixed for eleven sharp. I am to stand underneath his window and heave bricks till something happens. I don’t know if he keeps a dog. If so, I shall probably get bitten to the bone.”
“When are you going to start?”
“About five minutes after Wain has been round the dormitories to see that all’s well. That ought to be somewhere about half-past ten.”
“Don’t go getting caught.”
“I shall do my little best not to be. Rather tricky work, though, getting back. I’ve got to climb garden walls, and I shall probably be so full of ginger-pop that you’ll be able to hear it swishing about inside me. No catch steeple-chasing if you’re like that. They’ve no thought for people’s convenience here. Now at Bradford they’ve got studies on the ground floor, the windows looking out over the boundless prairie. No climbing or steeple-chasing needed at all. All you have to do is to open the window and step out. Still, we must make the best of things. Push us over a pinch of that tooth-powder of yours. I’ve used all mine.”
Wyatt very seldom penetrated further than his own garden on the occasions when he roamed abroad at night. For cat-shooting the Wain spinneys were unsurpassed. There was one particular dustbin where one might be certain of flushing a covey any night; and the wall by the potting-shed was a feline club-house.
But when he did wish to get out into the open country he had a special route which he always took. He climbed down from the wall that ram beneath the dormitory window into the garden belonging to Mr. Appleby, the master who had the house next to Mr. Wain’s. Crossing this, he climbed another wall, and dropped from it into a small lane, which ended in the main road leading to Wrykyn town.
This was the route which he took tonight. It was a glorious July night, and the scent of the flowers came to him with a curious distinctness as he let himself down from the dormitory window. At any other time he might have made a lengthy halt, and enjoyed the scents and small summer noises, but now he felt that it would be better not to delay. There was a full moon, and where he stood he could be seem distinctly from the windows of both houses. They were all dark, it is true, but on these occasions it was best to take no risks.
He dropped cautiously into Appleby’s garden, ran lightly across it, and was in the lane within a minute.
There he paused, dusted his trousers, which had suffered on the two walls, and strolled meditatively in the direction of the town. Half-past ten had just chimed from the school clock. He was in plenty of time.
“What a night!” he said to himself, sniffing as he walked.
Now it happened that he was not alone in admiring the beauty of that particular night. At ten-fifteen it had struck Mr. Appleby, looking out of his study into the moonlit school grounds, that a pipe in the open would make an excellent break in his night’s work. He had acquired a slight headache as the result of correcting a batch of examination papers, and he thought that an interval of an hour in the open air before approaching the half-dozen or so papers which still remained to be looked at might do him good. The window of his study was open, but the room had got hot and stuffy. Nothing like a little fresh air for putting him right.
For a few moments he debated the rival claims of a stroll in the cricket field and a seat in the garden. Then he decided on the latter. The little gate in the railings opposite his house might not be open, and it was a long way round to the main entrance. So he took a deck-chair which leaned against the wall, and let himself out of the back door.
He took up his position in the shadow of a fir-tree with his back to the house. From here he could see the long garden. He was fond of his garden, and spent what few moments he could spare from work and games pottering about it. He had his views as to what the ideal garden should be, and he hoped in time to tinker his own three acres up to the desired standard. At present there remained much to be done. Why not, for instance, take away those laurels at the end of the lawn, and have a flower-bed there instead? Laurels
lasted all the year round, true, whereas flowers died and left an empty brown bed in the winter, but then laurels were nothing much to look at at any time, and a garden always had a beastly appearance in winter, whatever you did to it. Much better have flowers, and get a decent show for one’s money in summer at any rate.
The problem of the bed at the end of the lawn occupied his complete attention for more than a quarter of an hour, at the end of which period he discovered that his pipe had gone out.
He was just feeling for his matches to re-light it when Wyatt dropped with a slight thud into his favourite herbaceous border.
The surprise, and the agony of feeling that large shoes were trampling among his treasures kept him transfixed for just the length of time necessary for Wyatt to cross the garden and climb the opposite wail. As he dropped into the lane, Mr. Appleby recovered himself sufficiently to emit a sort of strangled croak, but the sound was too slight to reach Wyatt. That reveller was walking down the Wrykyn road before Mr. Appleby had left his chair.
It is an interesting point that it was the gardener rather than the schoolmaster in Mr. Appleby that first awoke to action. It was not the idea of a boy breaking out of his house at night that occurred to him first as particularly heinous; it was the fact that the boy had broken out via his herbaceous border. In four strides he was on the scene of the outrage, examining, on hands and knees, with the aid of the moonlight the extent of the damage done.
As far as he could see, it was not serious. By a happy accident Wyatt’s shoes had gone home to right and left of precious plants but not on them. With a sigh of relief, Mr. Appleby smoothed over the cavities, and rose to his feet.
At this point it began to strike him that the episode affected him as a schoolmaster also.
In that startled moment when Wyatt had suddenly crossed his lime of vision, he had recognized him. The moon had shone full on his face as he left the flower-bed. There was no doubt in his mind as to the identity of the intruder.
He paused, wondering how he should act. It was not an easy question. There was nothing of the spy about Mr. Appleby. He went his way openly, liked and respected by boys and masters. He always played the game. The difficulty here was to say exactly what the game was. Sentiment, of course, bade him forget the episode, treat it as if it had never happened. That was the simple way out of the difficulty. There was nothing unsporting about Mr. Appleby. He knew that there were times when a master might, without blame, close his eyes or look the other way. If he had met Wyatt out of bounds in the daytime, and it had been possible to convey the impression that he had not seen him, he would have dome so. To be out of bounds is not a particularly deadly sin. A master must check it if it occurs too frequently, but he may use his discretion.