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

CHAPTER XVII

ANOTHER VACANCY

 

Wyatt got back late that night, arriving at the dormitory as Mike was

going to bed.

 

“By Jove, I’m done,” he said. “It was simply baking at Geddington. And

I came back in a carriage with Neville-Smith and Ellerby, and they

ragged the whole time. I wanted to go to sleep, only they wouldn’t let

me. Old Smith was awfully bucked because he’d taken four wickets. I

should think he’d go off his nut if he took eight ever. He was singing

comic songs when he wasn’t trying to put Ellerby under the seat. How’s

your wrist?”

 

“Oh, better, thanks.”

 

Wyatt began to undress.

 

“Any colours?” asked Mike after a pause. First eleven colours were

generally given in the pavilion after a match or on the journey home.

 

“No. Only one or two thirds. Jenkins and Clephane, and another chap,

can’t remember who. No first, though.”

 

“What was Bob’s innings like?”

 

“Not bad. A bit lucky. He ought to have been out before he’d scored,

and he was out when he’d made about sixteen, only the umpire didn’t

seem to know that it’s l-b-w when you get your leg right in front of

the wicket and the ball hits it. Never saw a clearer case in my life.

I was in at the other end. Bit rotten for the Geddington chaps. Just

lost them the match. Their umpire, too. Bit of luck for Bob. He didn’t

give the ghost of a chance after that.”

 

“I should have thought they’d have given him his colours.”

 

“Most captains would have done, only Burgess is so keen on fielding

that he rather keeps off it.”

 

“Why, did he field badly?”

 

“Rottenly. And the man always will choose Billy’s bowling to drop

catches off. And Billy would cut his rich uncle from Australia if he

kept on dropping them off him. Bob’s fielding’s perfectly sinful. He

was pretty bad at the beginning of the season, but now he’s got so

nervous that he’s a dozen times worse. He turns a delicate green when

he sees a catch coming. He let their best man off twice in one over,

off Billy, to-day; and the chap went on and made a hundred odd.

Ripping innings bar those two chances. I hear he’s got an average of

eighty in school matches this season. Beastly man to bowl to. Knocked

me off in half a dozen overs. And, when he does give a couple of easy

chances, Bob puts them both on the floor. Billy wouldn’t have given

him his cap after the match if he’d made a hundred. Bob’s the sort of

man who wouldn’t catch a ball if you handed it to him on a plate, with

watercress round it.”

 

Burgess, reviewing the match that night, as he lay awake in his

cubicle, had come to much the same conclusion. He was very fond of

Bob, but two missed catches in one over was straining the bonds of

human affection too far. There would have been serious trouble between

David and Jonathan if either had persisted in dropping catches off the

other’s bowling. He writhed in bed as he remembered the second of the

two chances which the wretched Bob had refused. The scene was

indelibly printed on his mind. Chap had got a late cut which he

fancied rather. With great guile he had fed this late cut. Sent down a

couple which he put to the boundary. Then fired a third much faster

and a bit shorter. Chap had a go at it, just as he had expected: and

he felt that life was a good thing after all when the ball just

touched the corner of the bat and flew into Bob’s hands. And Bob

dropped it!

 

The memory was too bitter. If he dwelt on it, he felt, he would get

insomnia. So he turned to pleasanter reflections: the yorker which had

shattered the second-wicket man, and the slow head-ball which had led

to a big hitter being caught on the boundary. Soothed by these

memories, he fell asleep.

 

Next morning he found himself in a softened frame of mind. He thought

of Bob’s iniquities with sorrow rather than wrath. He felt towards him

much as a father feels towards a prodigal son whom there is still a

chance of reforming. He overtook Bob on his way to chapel.

 

Directness was always one of Burgess’s leading qualities.

 

“Look here, Bob. About your fielding. It’s simply awful.”

 

Bob was all remorse.

 

“It’s those beastly slip catches. I can’t time them.”

 

“That one yesterday was right into your hands. Both of them were.”

 

“I know. I’m frightfully sorry.”

 

“Well, but I mean, why can’t you hold them? It’s no good being

a good bat—you’re that all right—if you’re going to give away runs

in the field.”

 

“Do you know, I believe I should do better in the deep. I could get

time to watch them there. I wish you’d give me a shot in the deep—for

the second.”

 

“Second be blowed! I want your batting in the first. Do you think

you’d really do better in the deep?”

 

“I’m almost certain I should. I’ll practise like mad. Trevor’ll hit me

up catches. I hate the slips. I get in the dickens of a funk directly

the bowler starts his run now. I know that if a catch does come, I

shall miss it. I’m certain the deep would be much better.”

 

“All right then. Try it.”

 

The conversation turned to less pressing topics.

 

*

 

In the next two matches, accordingly, Bob figured on the boundary,

where he had not much to do except throw the ball back to the bowler,

and stop an occasional drive along the carpet. The beauty of fielding

in the deep is that no unpleasant surprises can be sprung upon one.

There is just that moment or two for collecting one’s thoughts which

makes the whole difference. Bob, as he stood regarding the game from

afar, found his self-confidence returning slowly, drop by drop.

 

As for Mike, he played for the second, and hoped for the day.

 

*

 

His opportunity came at last. It will be remembered that on the

morning after the Great Picnic the headmaster made an announcement in

Hall to the effect that, owing to an outbreak of chicken-pox in the

town, all streets except the High Street would be out of bounds. This

did not affect the bulk of the school, for most of the shops to which

any one ever thought of going were in the High Street. But there were

certain inquiring minds who liked to ferret about in odd corners.

 

Among these was one Leather-Twigg, of Seymour’s, better known in

criminal circles as Shoeblossom.

 

Shoeblossom was a curious mixture of the Energetic Ragger and the

Quiet Student. On a Monday evening you would hear a hideous uproar

proceeding from Seymour’s junior day-room; and, going down with a

swagger-stick to investigate, you would find a tangled heap of

squealing humanity on the floor, and at the bottom of the heap,

squealing louder than any two others, would be Shoeblossom, his collar

burst and blackened and his face apoplectically crimson. On the

Tuesday afternoon, strolling in some shady corner of the grounds you

would come upon him lying on his chest, deep in some work of fiction

and resentful of interruption. On the Wednesday morning he would be in

receipt of four hundred lines from his housemaster for breaking three

windows and a gas-globe. Essentially a man of moods, Shoeblossom.

 

It happened about the date of the Geddington match that he took out

from the school library a copy of “The Iron Pirate,” and for the next

day or two he wandered about like a lost spirit trying to find a

sequestered spot in which to read it. His inability to hit on such a

spot was rendered more irritating by the fact that, to judge from the

first few chapters (which he had managed to get through during prep.

one night under the eye of a short-sighted master), the book was

obviously the last word in hot stuff. He tried the junior day-room,

but people threw cushions at him. He tried out of doors, and a ball

hit from a neighbouring net nearly scalped him. Anything in the nature

of concentration became impossible in these circumstances.

 

Then he recollected that in a quiet backwater off the High Street

there was a little confectioner’s shop, where tea might be had at a

reasonable sum, and also, what was more important, peace.

 

He made his way there, and in the dingy back shop, all amongst the

dust and bluebottles, settled down to a thoughtful perusal of chapter

six.

 

Upstairs, at the same moment, the doctor was recommending that Master

John George, the son of the house, be kept warm and out of draughts

and not permitted to scratch himself, however necessary such an action

might seem to him. In brief, he was attending J. G. for chicken-pox.

 

Shoeblossom came away, entering the High Street furtively, lest

Authority should see him out of bounds, and returned to the school,

where he went about his lawful occasions as if there were no such

thing as chicken-pox in the world.

 

But all the while the microbe was getting in some unostentatious but

clever work. A week later Shoeblossom began to feel queer. He had

occasional headaches, and found himself oppressed by a queer distaste

for food. The professional advice of Dr. Oakes, the school doctor, was

called for, and Shoeblossom took up his abode in the Infirmary, where

he read Punch, sucked oranges, and thought of Life.

 

Two days later Barry felt queer. He, too, disappeared from Society.

 

Chicken-pox is no respecter of persons. The next victim was Marsh, of

the first eleven. Marsh, who was top of the school averages. Where

were his drives now, his late cuts that were wont to set the pavilion

in a roar. Wrapped in a blanket, and looking like the spotted marvel

of a travelling circus, he was driven across to the Infirmary in a

four-wheeler, and it became incumbent upon Burgess to select a

substitute for him.

 

And so it came about that Mike soared once again into the ranks of the

elect, and found his name down in the team to play against the

Incogniti.