Psmith Series. P. G. Wodehouse

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      “I say, what rot!”

      “It is, rather.; Still, nobody can say I didn’t ask for it.; If one goes out of one’s way to beg and beseech the Old Man to put one in extra, it would be a little rough on him to curse him when he does it.”

      “I should be awfully sick, if it were me.”

      “Well, it isn’t you, so you’re all right.; You’ll probably get my place in the team.”

      Mike smiled dutifully at what he supposed to be a humorous sally.

      “Or, rather, one of the places,” continued Wyatt, who seemed to be sufficiently in earnest.; “They’ll put a bowler in instead of me.; Probably Druce.; But there’ll be several vacancies.; Let’s see.; Me.; Adams.; Ashe.; Any more?; No, that’s the lot.; I should think they’d give you a chance.”

      “You needn’t rot,” said Mike uncomfortably.; He had his day-dreams, like everybody else, and they always took the form of playing for the first eleven (and, incidentally, making a century in record time).; To have to listen while the subject was talked about lightly made him hot and prickly all over.

      “I’m not rotting,” said Wyatt seriously, “I’ll suggest it to Burgess to-night.”

      “You don’t think there’s any chance of it, really, do you?” said Mike awkwardly.

      “I don’t see why not?; Buck up in the scratch game this afternoon.; Fielding especially.; Burgess is simply mad on fielding.; I don’t blame him either, especially as he’s a bowler himself.; He’d shove a man into the team like a shot, whatever his batting was like, if his fielding was something extra special.; So you field like a demon this afternoon, and I’ll carry on the good work in the evening.”

      “I say,” said Mike, overcome, “it’s awfully decent of you, Wyatt.”

      * * * * *

      Billy Burgess, captain of Wrykyn cricket, was a genial giant, who seldom allowed himself to be ruffled.; The present was one of the rare occasions on which he permitted himself that luxury.; Wyatt found him in his study, shortly before lock-up, full of strange oaths, like the soldier in Shakespeare.

      “You rotter!; You rotter!; You worm!” he observed crisply, as Wyatt appeared.

      “Dear old Billy!” said Wyatt.; “Come on, give me a kiss, and let’s be friends.”

      “You——!”

      “William!; William!”

      “If it wasn’t illegal, I’d like to tie you and Ashe and that blackguard Adams up in a big sack, and drop you into the river.; And I’d jump on the sack first.; What do you mean by letting the team down like this?; I know you were at the bottom of it all.”

      He struggled into his shirt—­he was changing after a bath—­and his face popped wrathfully out at the other end.

      “I’m awfully sorry, Bill,” said Wyatt.; “The fact is, in the excitement of the moment the M.C.C. match went clean out of my mind.”

      “You haven’t got a mind,” grumbled Burgess.; “You’ve got a cheap brown paper substitute.; That’s your trouble.”

      Wyatt turned the conversation tactfully.

      “How many wickets did you get to-day?” he asked.

      “Eight.; For a hundred and three.; I was on the spot.; Young Jackson caught a hot one off me at third man.; That kid’s good.”

      “Why don’t you play him against the M.C.C. on Wednesday?” said Wyatt, jumping at his opportunity.

      “What?; Are you sitting on my left shoe?”

      “No.; There it is in the corner.”

      “Right ho!...; What were you saying?”

      “Why not play young Jackson for the first?”

      “Too small.”

      “Rot.; What does size matter?; Cricket isn’t footer.; Besides, he isn’t small.; He’s as tall as I am.”

      “I suppose he is.; Dash, I’ve dropped my stud.”

      Wyatt waited patiently till he had retrieved it.; Then he returned to the attack.

      “He’s as good a bat as his brother, and a better field.”

      “Old Bob can’t field for toffee.; I will say that for him.; Dropped a sitter off me to-day.; Why the deuce fellows can’t hold catches when they drop slowly into their mouths I’m hanged if I can see.”

      “You play him,” said Wyatt.; “Just give him a trial.; That kid’s a genius at cricket.; He’s going to be better than any of his brothers, even Joe.; Give him a shot.”

      Burgess hesitated.

      “You know, it’s a bit risky,” he said.; “With you three lunatics out of the team we can’t afford to try many experiments.; Better stick to the men at the top of the second.”

      Wyatt got up, and kicked the wall as a vent for his feelings.

      “You rotter,” he said.; “Can’t you see when you’ve got a good man?; Here’s this kid waiting for you ready made with a style like Trumper’s, and you rave about top men in the second, chaps who play forward at everything, and pat half-volleys back to the bowler!; Do you realise that your only chance of being known to Posterity is as the man who gave M. Jackson his colours at Wrykyn?; In a few years he’ll be playing for England, and you’ll think it a favour if he nods to you in the pav. at Lord’s.; When you’re a white-haired old man you’ll go doddering about, gassing to your grandchildren, poor kids, how you ‘discovered’ M. Jackson.; It’ll be the only thing they’ll respect you for.”

      Wyatt stopped for breath.

      “All right,” said Burgess, “I’ll think it over.; Frightful gift of the gab you’ve got, Wyatt.”

      “Good,” said Wyatt.; “Think it over.; And don’t forget what I said about the grandchildren.; You would like little Wyatt Burgess and the other little Burgesses to respect you in your old age, wouldn’t you?; Very well, then.; So long.; The bell went ages ago.; I shall be locked out.”

      * * * * *

      On the Monday morning Mike passed the notice-board just as Burgess turned away from pinning up the list of the team to play the M.C.C.; He read it, and his heart missed a beat.; For, bottom but one, just above the W. B. Burgess, was a name that leaped from the paper at him.; His own name.

      CHAPTER XIII

      THE M.C.C. MATCH

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