Mike, Page 2

  CHAPTER I

  MIKE

  It was a morning in the middle of April, and the Jackson family wereconsequently breakfasting in comparative silence. The cricket seasonhad not begun, and except during the cricket season they were in thehabit of devoting their powerful minds at breakfast almost exclusivelyto the task of victualling against the labours of the day. In May,June, July, and August the silence was broken. The three grown-upJacksons played regularly in first-class cricket, and there was alwayskeen competition among their brothers and sisters for the copy of the_Sportsman_ which was to be found on the hall table with theletters. Whoever got it usually gloated over it in silence till urgedwrathfully by the multitude to let them know what had happened; whenit would appear that Joe had notched his seventh century, or thatReggie had been run out when he was just getting set, or, as sometimesoccurred, that that ass Frank had dropped Fry or Hayward in the slipsbefore he had scored, with the result that the spared expert had madea couple of hundred and was still going strong.

  In such a case the criticisms of the family circle, particularly ofthe 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 beenfined pudding at lunch for her caustic comments on the batting of herbrother Reggie in important fixtures. Cricket was a tradition in thefamily, and the ladies, unable to their sorrow to play the gamethemselves, were resolved that it should not be their fault if thestandard was not kept up.

  On this particular morning silence reigned. A deep gasp from somesmall Jackson, wrestling with bread-and-milk, and an occasional remarkfrom 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 squeezeda sponge over him. He swallowed an awful lot, and then he woke up, andtried 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 wassnoring like anything."

  "You might have choked him."

  "I did," said Marjory with satisfaction. "Jam, please, Phyllis, youpig."

  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," headded across the table to Mrs. Jackson. "The house is full, but he isturning a small room into an extra dormitory, so he can take Mikeafter all."

  The first comment on this momentous piece of news came from BobJackson. Bob was eighteen. The following term would be his last atWrykyn, and, having won through so far without the infliction of asmall brother, he disliked the prospect of not being allowed to finishas he had begun.

  "I say!" he said. "What?"

  "He ought to have gone before," said Mr. Jackson. "He's fifteen. Muchtoo 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 thatMike should be going to Wain's. He had the same feeling for Mike thatmost boys of eighteen have for their fifteen-year-old brothers. He wasfond of him in the abstract, but preferred him at a distance.

  Marjory gave tongue again. She had rescued the jam from Phyllis, whohad shown signs of finishing it, and was now at liberty to turn hermind to less pressing matters. Mike was her special ally, and anythingthat affected his fortunes affected her.

  "Hooray! Mike's going to Wrykyn. I bet he gets into the first elevenhis 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 kidlike 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'sseconds to whom he had referred. He was a sound bat, though lackingthe brilliance of his elder brothers, and he fancied that his cap wasa 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 'Ibet' 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 dooropened, and the missing member of the family appeared. Mike Jacksonwas tall for his age. His figure was thin and wiry. His arms and legslooked a shade too long for his body. He was evidently going to bevery tall some day. In face, he was curiously like his brother Joe,whose appearance is familiar to every one who takes an interest infirst-class cricket. The resemblance was even more marked on thecricket field. Mike had Joe's batting style to the last detail. He wasa 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 morningsince the beginning of the holidays.

  "All right, Marjory, you little beast," was his reference to thesponge 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 mustlearn 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 nextterm." From Phyllis.

  "Mike, you're going to Wrykyn." From Ella.

  Gladys Maud Evangeline, aged three, obliged with a solo of her owncomposition, 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 someseconds, suddenly drew a long breath, and squealed deafeningly formore milk.

  Mike looked round the table. It was a great moment. He rose to it withthe utmost dignity.

  "Good," he said. "I say, what's under that dish?"

  * * * * *

  After breakfast, Mike and Marjory went off together to the meadow atthe end of the garden. Saunders, the professional, assisted by thegardener's boy, was engaged in putting up the net. Mr. Jacksonbelieved in private coaching; and every spring since Joe, the eldestof the family, had been able to use a bat a man had come down from theOval to teach him the best way to do so. Each of the boys in turn hadpassed from spectators to active participants in the net practice inthe meadow. For several years now Saunders had been the chosen man,and his attitude towards the Jacksons was that of the Faithful OldRetainer in melodrama. Mike was his special favourite. He felt that inhim he had material of the finest order to work upon. There wasnothing the matter with Bob. In Bob he would turn out a good, soundarticle. Bob would be a Blue in his third or fourth year, and probablya creditable performer among the rank and file of a county team lateron. But he was not a cricket genius, like Mike. Saunders would lieawake at night sometimes thinking of the possibilities that were inMike. The strength could only come with years, but the style was therealready. Joe's style, with improvements.

  Mike put on his pads; and Marjory walked with the professional to thebowling crease.

  "Mike's going to Wrykyn next term, Saunders," she said. "All the boyswere there, you know. So was father, ages ago."

  "Is he, miss? I was thinking he would be soon."

  "Do you think he'll g
et into the school team?"

  "School team, miss! Master Mike get into a school team! He'll beplaying for England in another eight years. That's what he'll beplaying for."

  "Yes, but I meant next term. It would be a record if he did. Even Joeonly got in after he'd been at school two years. Don't you think hemight, 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 allthere, in a manner of speaking, with Master Mike. He's got as muchstyle as Mr. Joe's got, every bit. The whole thing is, you see, miss,you get these young gentlemen of eighteen, and nineteen perhaps, andit stands to reason they're stronger. There's a young gentleman,perhaps, doesn't know as much about what I call real playing as MasterMike'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 MasterMike 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'tcount on it, so you won't be disappointed if it doesn't happen. It'squite likely that it will, only all I say is don't count on it. I onlyhope that they won't knock all the style out of him before they'redone 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 'emfor my taste. Seem to think playing forward the alpha and omugger ofbatting. They'll make him pat balls back to the bowler which he'd cutfor twos and threes if he was left to himself. Still, we'll hope forthe best, miss. Ready, Master Mike? Play."

  As Saunders had said, it was all there. Of Mike's style there could beno doubt. To-day, too, he was playing more strongly than usual.Marjory had to run to the end of the meadow to fetch one straightdrive. "He hit that hard enough, didn't he, Saunders?" she asked, asshe returned the ball.

  "If he could keep on doing ones like that, miss," said theprofessional, "they'd have him in the team before you could sayknife."

  Marjory sat down again beside the net, and watched more hopefully.