CHAPTER IV
AT THE NETS
There are few better things in life than a public school summer term.The winter term is good, especially towards the end, and there arepoints, though not many, about the Easter term: but it is in thesummer that one really appreciates public school life. The freedom ofit, after the restrictions of even the most easy-going private school,is intoxicating. The change is almost as great as that from publicschool to 'Varsity.
For Mike the path was made particularly easy. The only drawback togoing to a big school for the first time is the fact that one is madeto feel so very small and inconspicuous. New boys who have beenleading lights at their private schools feel it acutely for the firstweek. At one time it was the custom, if we may believe writers of ageneration or so back, for boys to take quite an embarrassing interestin the newcomer. He was asked a rain of questions, and was, generally,in the very centre of the stage. Nowadays an absolute lack of interestis the fashion. A new boy arrives, and there he is, one of a crowd.
Mike was saved this salutary treatment to a large extent, at first byvirtue of the greatness of his family, and, later, by his ownperformances on the cricket field. His three elder brothers wereobjects of veneration to most Wrykynians, and Mike got a certainamount of reflected glory from them. The brother of first-classcricketers has a dignity of his own. Then Bob was a help. He was onthe verge of the cricket team and had been the school full-back fortwo seasons. Mike found that people came up and spoke to him, anxiousto know if he were Jackson's brother; and became friendly when hereplied in the affirmative. Influential relations are a help in everystage of life.
It was Wyatt who gave him his first chance at cricket. There were netson the first afternoon of term for all old colours of the three teamsand a dozen or so of those most likely to fill the vacant places.Wyatt was there, of course. He had got his first eleven cap in theprevious season as a mighty hitter and a fair slow bowler. Mike methim crossing the field with his cricket bag.
"Hullo, where are you off to?" asked Wyatt. "Coming to watch thenets?"
Mike had no particular programme for the afternoon. Junior cricket hadnot begun, and it was a little difficult to know how to fill in thetime.
"I tell you what," said Wyatt, "nip into the house and shove on somethings, and I'll try and get Burgess to let you have a knock lateron."
This suited Mike admirably. A quarter of an hour later he was sittingat the back of the first eleven net, watching the practice.
Burgess, the captain of the Wrykyn team, made no pretence of being abat. He was the school fast bowler and concentrated his energies onthat department of the game. He sometimes took ten minutes at thewicket after everybody else had had an innings, but it was to bowlthat he came to the nets.
He was bowling now to one of the old colours whose name Mike did notknow. Wyatt and one of the professionals were the other two bowlers.Two nets away Firby-Smith, who had changed his pince-nez for a pair ofhuge spectacles, was performing rather ineffectively against some verybad bowling. Mike fixed his attention on the first eleven man.
He was evidently a good bat. There was style and power in his batting.He had a way of gliding Burgess's fastest to leg which Mike admiredgreatly. He was succeeded at the end of a quarter of an hour byanother eleven man, and then Bob appeared.
It was soon made evident that this was not Bob's day. Nobody is at hisbest on the first day of term; but Bob was worse than he had any rightto be. He scratched forward at nearly everything, and when Burgess,who had been resting, took up the ball again, he had each stumpuprooted in a regular series in seven balls. Once he skied one ofWyatt's slows over the net behind the wicket; and Mike, jumping up,caught him neatly.
"Thanks," said Bob austerely, as Mike returned the ball to him. Heseemed depressed.
Towards the end of the afternoon, Wyatt went up to Burgess.
"Burgess," he said, "see that kid sitting behind the net?"
"With the naked eye," said Burgess. "Why?"
"He's just come to Wain's. He's Bob Jackson's brother, and I've a sortof idea that he's a bit of a bat. I told him I'd ask you if he couldhave a knock. Why not send him in at the end net? There's nobody therenow."
Burgess's amiability off the field equalled his ruthlessness whenbowling.
"All right," he said. "Only if you think that I'm going to sweat tobowl to him, you're making a fatal error."
"You needn't do a thing. Just sit and watch. I rather fancy this kid'ssomething special."
* * * * *
Mike put on Wyatt's pads and gloves, borrowed his bat, and walkedround into the net.
"Not in a funk, are you?" asked Wyatt, as he passed.
Mike grinned. The fact was that he had far too good an opinion ofhimself to be nervous. An entirely modest person seldom makes a goodbatsman. Batting is one of those things which demand first andforemost a thorough belief in oneself. It need not be aggressive, butit must be there.
Wyatt and the professional were the bowlers. Mike had seen enough ofWyatt's bowling to know that it was merely ordinary "slow tosh," andthe professional did not look as difficult as Saunders. The firsthalf-dozen balls he played carefully. He was on trial, and he meant totake no risks. Then the professional over-pitched one slightly on theoff. Mike jumped out, and got the full face of the bat on to it. Theball hit one of the ropes of the net, and nearly broke it.
"How's that?" said Wyatt, with the smile of an impresario on the firstnight of a successful piece.
"Not bad," admitted Burgess.
A few moments later he was still more complimentary. He got up andtook a ball himself.
Mike braced himself up as Burgess began his run. This time he was morethan a trifle nervous. The bowling he had had so far had been tame.This would be the real ordeal.
As the ball left Burgess's hand he began instinctively to shape for aforward stroke. Then suddenly he realised that the thing was going tobe a yorker, and banged his bat down in the block just as the ballarrived. An unpleasant sensation as of having been struck by athunderbolt was succeeded by a feeling of relief that he had kept theball out of his wicket. There are easier things in the world thanstopping a fast yorker.
"Well played," said Burgess.
Mike felt like a successful general receiving the thanks of thenation.
The fact that Burgess's next ball knocked middle and off stumps out ofthe ground saddened him somewhat; but this was the last tragedy thatoccurred. He could not do much with the bowling beyond stopping it andfeeling repetitions of the thunderbolt experience, but he kept up hisend; and a short conversation which he had with Burgess at the end ofhis innings was full of encouragement to one skilled in readingbetween the lines.
"Thanks awfully," said Mike, referring to the square manner in whichthe captain had behaved in letting him bat.
"What school were you at before you came here?" asked Burgess.
"A private school in Hampshire," said Mike. "King-Hall's. At a placecalled Emsworth."
"Get much cricket there?"
"Yes, a good lot. One of the masters, a chap called Westbrook, was anawfully good slow bowler."
Burgess nodded.
"You don't run away, which is something," he said.
Mike turned purple with pleasure at this stately compliment. Then,having waited for further remarks, but gathering from the captain'ssilence that the audience was at an end, he proceeded to unbuckle hispads. Wyatt overtook him on his way to the house.
"Well played," he said. "I'd no idea you were such hot stuff. You're aregular pro."
"I say," said Mike gratefully, "it was most awfully decent of yougetting Burgess to let me go in. It was simply ripping of you."
"Oh, that's all right. If you don't get pushed a bit here you stay forages in the hundredth game with the cripples and the kids. Now you'veshown them what you can do you ought to get into the Under Sixteenteam straight away. Probably into the third, too."
"By Jove, that would be all right."
"I asked Burgess afterwards what he thought of your batting, and hesaid, 'Not bad.' But he says that about everything. It's his highestform of praise. He says it when he wants to let himself go and simplybutter up a thing. If you took him to see N. A. Knox bowl, he'd say hewasn't bad. What he meant was that he was jolly struck with yourbatting, and is going to play you for the Under Sixteen."
"I hope so," said Mike.
The prophecy was fulfilled. On the following Wednesday there was amatch between the Under Sixteen and a scratch side. Mike's name wasamong the Under Sixteen. And on the Saturday he was playing for thethird eleven in a trial game.
"This place is ripping," he said to himself, as he saw his name on thelist. "Thought I should like it."
And that night he wrote a letter to his father, notifying him of thefact.
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