A succession of events combined to upset Mike during his firstfortnight at school. He was far more successful than he had any rightto be at his age. There is nothing more heady than success, and if itcomes before we are prepared for it, it is apt to throw us off ourbalance. As a rule, at school, years of wholesome obscurity make usready for any small triumphs we may achieve at the end of our timethere. Mike had skipped these years. He was older than the average newboy, and his batting was undeniable. He knew quite well that he wasregarded as a find by the cricket authorities; and the knowledge wasnot particularly good for him. It did not make him conceited, for hiswas not a nature at all addicted to conceit. The effect it had on himwas to make him excessively pleased with life. And when Mike waspleased with life he always found a difficulty in obeying Authorityand its rules. His state of mind was not improved by an interview withBob.

　　Some evil genius put it into Bob's mind that it was his duty to be, ifonly for one performance, the Heavy Elder Brother to Mike; to give himgood advice. It is never the smallest use for an elder brother toattempt to do anything for the good of a younger brother at school,for the latter rebels automatically against such interference in hisconcerns; but Bob did not know this. He only knew that he had receiveda letter from home, in which his mother had assumed without evidencethat he was leading Mike by the hand round the pitfalls of life atWrykyn; and his conscience smote him. Beyond asking him occasionally,when they met, how he was getting on (a question to which Mikeinvariably replied, "Oh, all right"), he was not aware of having doneanything brotherly towards the youngster. So he asked Mike to tea inhis study one afternoon before going to the nets.

　　Mike arrived, sidling into the study in the half-sheepish, half-defiantmanner peculiar to small brothers in the presence of their elders, andstared in silence at the photographs on the walls. Bob was changing intohis cricket things. The atmosphere was one of constraint and awkwardness.

　　The arrival of tea was the cue for conversation.

　　"Well, how are you getting on?" asked Bob.

　　"Oh, all right," said Mike.

　　Silence.

　　"Sugar?" asked Bob.

　　"Thanks," said Mike.

　　"How many lumps?""Two, please.""Cake?""Thanks."Silence.

　　Bob pulled himself together.

　　"Like Wain's?""Ripping.""I asked Firby-Smith to keep an eye on you," said Bob.

　　"What!" said Mike.

　　The mere idea of a worm like the Gazeka being told to keep an eye on_him_ was degrading.

　　"He said he'd look after you," added Bob, making things worse.

　　Look after him! Him!! M. Jackson, of the third eleven!!!

　　Mike helped himself to another chunk of cake, and spoke crushingly.

　　"He needn't trouble," he said. "I can look after myself all right,thanks."Bob saw an opening for the entry of the Heavy Elder Brother.

　　"Look here, Mike," he said, "I'm only saying it for your good----"I should like to state here that it was not Bob's habit to go aboutthe world telling people things solely for their good. He was onlydoing it now to ease his conscience.

　　"Yes?" said Mike coldly.

　　"It's only this. You know, I should keep an eye on myself if I wereyou. There's nothing that gets a chap so barred here as side.""What do you mean?" said Mike, outraged.

　　"Oh, I'm not saying anything against you so far," said Bob. "You'vebeen all right up to now. What I mean to say is, you've got on so wellat cricket, in the third and so on, there's just a chance you mightstart to side about a bit soon, if you don't watch yourself. I'm notsaying a word against you so far, of course. Only you see what Imean."Mike's feelings were too deep for words. In sombre silence he reachedout for the jam; while Bob, satisfied that he had delivered hismessage in a pleasant and tactful manner, filled his cup, and castabout him for further words of wisdom.

　　"Seen you about with Wyatt a good deal," he said at length.

　　"Yes," said Mike.

　　"Like him?""Yes," said Mike cautiously.

　　"You know," said Bob, "I shouldn't--I mean, I should take care whatyou're doing with Wyatt.""What do you mean?""Well, he's an awfully good chap, of course, but still----""Still what?""Well, I mean, he's the sort of chap who'll probably get into somethundering row before he leaves. He doesn't care a hang what he does.

　　He's that sort of chap. He's never been dropped on yet, but if you goon breaking rules you're bound to be sooner or later. Thing is, itdoesn't matter much for him, because he's leaving at the end of theterm. But don't let him drag you into anything. Not that he would tryto. But you might think it was the blood thing to do to imitate him,and the first thing you knew you'd be dropped on by Wain or somebody.

　　See what I mean?"Bob was well-intentioned, but tact did not enter greatly into hiscomposition.

　　"What rot!" said Mike.

　　"All right. But don't you go doing it. I'm going over to the nets. Isee Burgess has shoved you down for them. You'd better be going andchanging. Stick on here a bit, though, if you want any more tea. I'vegot to be off myself."Mike changed for net-practice in a ferment of spiritual injury. It wasmaddening to be treated as an infant who had to be looked after. Hefelt very sore against Bob.

　　A good innings at the third eleven net, followed by some strenuousfielding in the deep, soothed his ruffled feelings to a large extent;and all might have been well but for the intervention of Firby-Smith.

　　That youth, all spectacles and front teeth, met Mike at the door ofWain's.

　　"Ah, I wanted to see you, young man," he said. (Mike disliked beingcalled "young man.") "Come up to my study."Mike followed him in silence to his study, and preserved his silencetill Firby-Smith, having deposited his cricket-bag in a corner of theroom and examined himself carefully in a looking-glass that hung overthe mantelpiece, spoke again.

　　"I've been hearing all about you, young man." Mike shuffled.

　　"You're a frightful character from all accounts." Mike could not thinkof anything to say that was not rude, so said nothing.

　　"Your brother has asked me to keep an eye on you."Mike's soul began to tie itself into knots again. He was just at theage when one is most sensitive to patronage and most resentful of it.

　　"I promised I would," said the Gazeka, turning round and examininghimself in the mirror again. "You'll get on all right if you behaveyourself. Don't make a frightful row in the house. Don't cheek yourelders and betters. Wash. That's all. Cut along."Mike had a vague idea of sacrificing his career to the momentarypleasure of flinging a chair at the head of the house. Overcoming thisfeeling, he walked out of the room, and up to his dormitory to change.

　　* * * * *In the dormitory that night the feeling of revolt, of wanting todo something actively illegal, increased. Like Eric, he burned, notwith shame and remorse, but with rage and all that sort of thing.

　　He dropped off to sleep full of half-formed plans for assertinghimself. He was awakened from a dream in which he was batting againstFirby-Smith's bowling, and hitting it into space every time, by aslight sound. He opened his eyes, and saw a dark figure silhouettedagainst the light of the window. He sat up in bed.

　　"Hullo," he said. "Is that you, Wyatt?""Are you awake?" said Wyatt. "Sorry if I've spoiled your beautysleep.""Are you going out?""I am," said Wyatt. "The cats are particularly strong on the wing justnow. Mustn't miss a chance like this. Specially as there's a goodmoon, too. I shall be deadly.""I say, can't I come too?"A moonlight prowl, with or without an air-pistol, would just havesuited Mike's mood.

　　"No, you can't," said Wyatt. "When I'm caught, as I'm morally certainto be some day, or night rather, they're bound to ask if you've everbeen out as well as me. Then you'll be able to put your hand on yourlittle heart and do a big George Washington act. You'll find thatuseful when the time comes.""Do you think you will be caught?""Shouldn't be surprised. Anyhow, you stay where you are. Go to sleepand dream that you're playing for the school against Ripton. So long."And Wyatt, laying the bar he had extracted on the window-sill,wriggled out. Mike saw him disappearing along the wall.

　　* * * * *It was all very well for Wyatt to tell him to go to sleep, but it wasnot so easy to do it. The room was almost light; and Mike always foundit difficult to sleep unless it was dark. He turned over on his sideand shut his eyes, but he had never felt wider awake. Twice he heardthe quarters chime from the school clock; and the second time he gaveup the struggle. He got out of bed and went to the window. It was alovely night, just the sort of night on which, if he had been at home,he would have been out after moths with a lantern.

　　A sharp yowl from an unseen cat told of Wyatt's presence somewhere inthe big garden. He would have given much to be with him, but herealised that he was on parole. He had promised not to leave thehouse, and there was an end of it.

　　He turned away from the window and sat down on his bed. Then abeautiful, consoling thought came to him. He had given his word thathe would not go into the garden, but nothing had been said aboutexploring inside the house. It was quite late now. Everybody would bein bed. It would be quite safe. And there must be all sorts of thingsto interest the visitor in Wain's part of the house. Food, perhaps.

　　Mike felt that he could just do with a biscuit. And there were boundto be biscuits on the sideboard in Wain's dining-room.

　　He crept quietly out of the dormitory.

　　He had been long enough in the house to know the way, in spite of thefact that all was darkness. Down the stairs, along the passage to theleft, and up a few more stairs at the end The beauty of the positionwas that the dining-room had two doors, one leading into Wain's partof the house, the other into the boys' section. Any interruption thatthere might be would come from the further door.

　　To make himself more secure he locked that door; then, turning up theincandescent light, he proceeded to look about him.

　　Mr. Wain's dining-room repaid inspection. There were the remains ofsupper on the table. Mike cut himself some cheese and took somebiscuits from the box, feeling that he was doing himself well. Thiswas Life. There was a little soda-water in the syphon. He finished it.

　　As it swished into the glass, it made a noise that seemed to him likethree hundred Niagaras; but nobody else in the house appeared to havenoticed it.

　　He took some more biscuits, and an apple.

　　After which, feeling a new man, he examined the room.

　　And this was where the trouble began.

　　On a table in one corner stood a small gramophone. And gramophoneshappened to be Mike's particular craze.

　　All thought of risk left him. The soda-water may have got into hishead, or he may have been in a particularly reckless mood, as indeedhe was. The fact remains that _he_ inserted the first record thatcame to hand, wound the machine up, and set it going.

　　The next moment, very loud and nasal, a voice from the machineannounced that Mr. Godfrey Field would sing "The Quaint Old Bird."And, after a few preliminary chords, Mr. Field actually did so.

　　_"Auntie went to Aldershot in a Paris pom-pom hat."_Mike stood and drained it in.

　　_"... Good gracious_ (sang Mr. Field), _what was that?"_It was a rattling at the handle of the door. A rattling that turnedalmost immediately into a spirited banging. A voice accompanied thebanging. "Who is there?" inquired the voice. Mike recognised it as Mr.

　　Wain's. He was not alarmed. The man who holds the ace of trumps has noneed to be alarmed. His position was impregnable. The enemy was heldin check by the locked door, while the other door offered an admirableand instantaneous way of escape.

　　Mike crept across the room on tip-toe and opened the window. It hadoccurred to him, just in time, that if Mr. Wain, on entering the room,found that the occupant had retired by way of the boys' part of thehouse, he might possibly obtain a clue to his identity. If, on theother hand, he opened the window, suspicion would be diverted. Mikehad not read his "Raffles" for nothing.

　　The handle-rattling was resumed. This was good. So long as the frontalattack was kept up, there was no chance of his being taken in therear--his only danger.

　　He stopped the gramophone, which had been pegging away patiently at"The Quaint Old Bird" all the time, and reflected. It seemed a pity toevacuate the position and ring down the curtain on what was, to date,the most exciting episode of his life; but he must not overdo thething, and get caught. At any moment the noise might bringreinforcements to the besieging force, though it was not likely, forthe dining-room was a long way from the dormitories; and it mightflash upon their minds that there were two entrances to the room. Orthe same bright thought might come to Wain himself.

　　"Now what," pondered Mike, "would A. J. Raffles have done in a caselike this? Suppose he'd been after somebody's jewels, and found thatthey were after him, and he'd locked one door, and could get away bythe other."The answer was simple.

　　"He'd clear out," thought Mike.

　　Two minutes later he was in bed.

　　He lay there, tingling all over with the consciousness of havingplayed a masterly game, when suddenly a gruesome idea came to him, andhe sat up, breathless. Suppose Wain took it into his head to make atour of the dormitories, to see that all was well! Wyatt was stillin the garden somewhere, blissfully unconscious of what was going onindoors. He would be caught for a certainty!