The seeing off of Mike on the last day of the holidays was an imposingspectacle, a sort of pageant. Going to a public school, especially atthe beginning of the summer term, is no great hardship, moreparticularly when the departing hero has a brother on the verge of theschool eleven and three other brothers playing for counties; and Mikeseemed in no way disturbed by the prospect. Mothers, however, to theend of time will foster a secret fear that their sons will be bulliedat a big school, and Mrs. Jackson's anxious look lent a fine solemnityto the proceedings.
And as Marjory, Phyllis, and Ella invariably broke down when the timeof separation arrived, and made no exception to their rule on thepresent occasion, a suitable gloom was the keynote of the gathering.
Mr. Jackson seemed to bear the parting with fortitude, as did Mike'sUncle John (providentially roped in at the eleventh hour on his wayto Scotland, in time to come down with a handsome tip). To theircoarse-fibred minds there was nothing pathetic or tragic about theaffair at all. (At the very moment when the train began to glide outof the station Uncle John was heard to remark that, in his opinion,these Bocks weren't a patch on the old shaped Larranaga.) Among otherspresent might have been noticed Saunders, practising late cuts rathercoyly with a walking-stick in the background; the village idiot, whohad rolled up on the chance of a dole; Gladys Maud Evangeline's nurse,smiling vaguely; and Gladys Maud Evangeline herself, frankly boredwith the whole business.
The train gathered speed. The air was full of last messages. UncleJohn said on second thoughts he wasn't sure these Bocks weren't half abad smoke after all. Gladys Maud cried, because she had taken a suddendislike to the village idiot; and Mike settled himself in the cornerand opened a magazine.
He was alone in the carriage. Bob, who had been spending the last weekof the holidays with an aunt further down the line, was to board thetrain at East Wobsley, and the brothers were to make a state entryinto Wrykyn together. Meanwhile, Mike was left to his milk chocolate,his magazines, and his reflections.
The latter were not numerous, nor profound. He was excited. He hadbeen petitioning the home authorities for the past year to be allowedto leave his private school and go to Wrykyn, and now the thing hadcome about. He wondered what sort of a house Wain's was, and whetherthey had any chance of the cricket cup. According to Bob they had noearthly; but then Bob only recognised one house, Donaldson's. Hewondered if Bob would get his first eleven cap this year, and if hehimself were likely to do anything at cricket. Marjory had faithfullyreported every word Saunders had said on the subject, but Bob had beenso careful to point out his insignificance when compared with thehumblest Wrykynian that the professional's glowing prophecies had nothad much effect. It might be true that some day he would play forEngland, but just at present he felt he would exchange his place inthe team for one in the Wrykyn third eleven. A sort of mist envelopedeverything Wrykynian. It seemed almost hopeless to try and competewith these unknown experts. On the other hand, there was Bob. Bob, byall accounts, was on the verge of the first eleven, and he was nothingspecial.
While he was engaged on these reflections, the train drew up at asmall station. Opposite the door of Mike's compartment was standing aboy of about Mike's size, though evidently some years older. He had asharp face, with rather a prominent nose; and a pair of pince-nez gavehim a supercilious look. He wore a bowler hat, and carried a smallportmanteau.
He opened the door, and took the seat opposite to Mike, whom hescrutinised for a moment rather after the fashion of a naturalistexamining some new and unpleasant variety of beetle. He seemed aboutto make some remark, but, instead, got up and looked through the openwindow.
"Where's that porter?" Mike heard him say.
The porter came skimming down the platform at that moment.
"Porter.""Sir?""Are those frightful boxes of mine in all right?""Yes, sir.""Because, you know, there'll be a frightful row if any of them getlost.""No chance of that, sir.""Here you are, then.""Thank you, sir."The youth drew his head and shoulders in, stared at Mike again, andfinally sat down. Mike noticed that he had nothing to read, andwondered if he wanted anything; but he did not feel equal to offeringhim one of his magazines. He did not like the looks of himparticularly. Judging by appearances, he seemed to carry enough sidefor three. If he wanted a magazine, thought Mike, let him ask for it.
The other made no overtures, and at the next stop got out. Thatexplained his magazineless condition. He was only travelling a shortway.
"Good business," said Mike to himself. He had all the Englishman'slove of a carriage to himself.
The train was just moving out of the station when his eye was suddenlycaught by the stranger's bag, lying snugly in the rack.
And here, I regret to say, Mike acted from the best motives, which isalways fatal.
He realised in an instant what had happened. The fellow had forgottenhis bag.
Mike had not been greatly fascinated by the stranger's looks; but,after all, the most supercilious person on earth has a right to hisown property. Besides, he might have been quite a nice fellow when yougot to know him. Anyhow, the bag had better be returned at once. Thetrainwas already moving quite fast, and Mike's compartment was nearingthe end of the platform.
He snatched the bag from the rack and hurled it out of the window.
(Porter Robinson, who happened to be in the line of fire, escaped witha flesh wound.) Then he sat down again with the inward glow ofsatisfaction which comes to one when one has risen successfully to asudden emergency.
* * * * *The glow lasted till the next stoppage, which did not occur for a goodmany miles. Then it ceased abruptly, for the train had scarcely cometo a standstill when the opening above the door was darkened by a headand shoulders. The head was surmounted by a bowler, and a pair ofpince-nez gleamed from the shadow.
"Hullo, I say," said the stranger. "Have you changed carriages, orwhat?""No," said Mike.
"Then, dash it, where's my frightful bag?"Life teems with embarrassing situations. This was one of them.
"The fact is," said Mike, "I chucked it out.""Chucked it out! what do you mean? When?""At the last station."The guard blew his whistle, and the other jumped into the carriage.
"I thought you'd got out there for good," explained Mike. "I'm awfullysorry.""Where _is_ the bag?""On the platform at the last station. It hit a porter."Against his will, for he wished to treat the matter with fittingsolemnity, Mike grinned at the recollection. The look on PorterRobinson's face as the bag took him in the small of the back had beenfunny, though not intentionally so.
The bereaved owner disapproved of this levity; and said as much.
"Don't _grin_, you little beast," he shouted. "There's nothing tolaugh at. You go chucking bags that don't belong to you out of thewindow, and then you have the frightful cheek to grin about it.""It wasn't that," said Mike hurriedly. "Only the porter looked awfullyfunny when it hit him.""Dash the porter! What's going to happen about my bag? I can't get outfor half a second to buy a magazine without your flinging my thingsabout the platform. What you want is a frightful kicking."The situation was becoming difficult. But fortunately at this momentthe train stopped once again; and, looking out of the window, Mike sawa board with East Wobsley upon it in large letters. A moment laterBob's head appeared in the doorway.
"Hullo, there you are," said Bob.
His eye fell upon Mike's companion.
"Hullo, Gazeka!" he exclaimed. "Where did you spring from? Do you knowmy brother? He's coming to Wrykyn this term. By the way, rather luckyyou've met. He's in your house. Firby-Smith's head of Wain's, Mike."Mike gathered that Gazeka and Firby-Smith were one and the sameperson. He grinned again. Firby-Smith continued to look ruffled,though not aggressive.
"Oh, are you in Wain's?" he said.
"I say, Bob," said Mike, "I've made rather an ass of myself.""Naturally.""I mean, what happened was this. I chucked Firby-Smith's portmanteauout of the window, thinking he'd got out, only he hadn't really, andit's at a station miles back.""You're a bit of a rotter, aren't you? Had it got your name andaddress on it, Gazeka?""Yes.""Oh, then it's certain to be all right. It's bound to turn up sometime. They'll send it on by the next train, and you'll get it eitherto-night or to-morrow.""Frightful nuisance, all the same. Lots of things in it I wanted.""Oh, never mind, it's all right. I say, what have you been doing inthe holidays? I didn't know you lived on this line at all."From this point onwards Mike was out of the conversation altogether.
Bob and Firby-Smith talked of Wrykyn, discussing events of theprevious term of which Mike had never heard. Names came into theirconversation which were entirely new to him. He realised that schoolpolitics were being talked, and that contributions from him to thedialogue were not required. He took up his magazine again, listeningthe while. They were discussing Wain's now. The name Wyatt cropped upwith some frequency. Wyatt was apparently something of a character.
Mention was made of rows in which he had played a part in the past.
"It must be pretty rotten for him," said Bob. "He and Wain never geton very well, and yet they have to be together, holidays as well asterm. Pretty bad having a step-father at all--I shouldn't care to--andwhen your house-master and your step-father are the same man, it's abit thick.""Frightful," agreed Firby-Smith.
"I swear, if I were in Wyatt's place, I should rot about likeanything. It isn't as if he'd anything to look forward to when heleaves. He told me last term that Wain had got a nomination for him insome beastly bank, and that he was going into it directly after theend of this term. Rather rough on a chap like Wyatt. Good cricketerand footballer, I mean, and all that sort of thing. It's just the sortof life he'll hate most. Hullo, here we are."Mike looked out of the window. It was Wrykyn at last.