Mike - Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (the reading strategies book TXT) 📗

MIKE

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.