Mike was a stout supporter of the view that sleep in large quantitiesis good for one. He belonged to the school of thought which holds thata man becomes plain and pasty if deprived of his full spell in bed. Heaimed at the peach-bloom complexion.

　　To be routed out of bed a clear hour before the proper time, even on asummer morning, was not, therefore, a prospect that appealed to him.

　　When he woke it seemed even less attractive than it had done whenhe went to sleep. He had banged his head on the pillow six timesover-night, and this silent alarm proved effective, as it alwaysdoes. Reaching out a hand for his watch, he found that it was fiveminutes past six.

　　This was to the good. He could manage another quarter of an hourbetween the sheets. It would only take him ten minutes to wash and getinto his flannels.

　　He took his quarter of an hour, and a little more. He woke from a sortof doze to find that it was twenty-five past.

　　Man's inability to get out of bed in the morning is a curious thing.

　　One may reason with oneself clearly and forcibly without the slightesteffect. One knows that delay means inconvenience. Perhaps it may spoilone's whole day. And one also knows that a single resolute heave willdo the trick. But logic is of no use. One simply lies there.

　　Mike thought he would take another minute.

　　And during that minute there floated into his mind the question, Who_was_ Firby-Smith? That was the point. Who _was_ he, after all?

　　This started quite a new train of thought. Previously Mike had firmlyintended to get up--some time. Now he began to waver.

　　The more he considered the Gazeka's insignificance and futility andhis own magnificence, the more outrageous did it seem that he shouldbe dragged out of bed to please Firby-Smith's vapid mind. Here was he,about to receive his first eleven colours on this very day probably,being ordered about, inconvenienced--in short, put upon by a worm whohad only just scraped into the third.

　　Was this right, he asked himself. Was this proper?

　　And the hands of the watch moved round to twenty to.

　　What was the matter with his fielding? _It_ was all right. Makethe rest of the team fag about, yes. But not a chap who, dash it all,had got his first _for_ fielding!

　　It was with almost a feeling of self-righteousness that Mike turnedover on his side and went to sleep again.

　　And outside in the cricket-field, the massive mind of the Gazeka wasfilled with rage, as it was gradually borne in upon him that this wasnot a question of mere lateness--which, he felt, would be bad enough,for when he said six-thirty he meant six-thirty--but of actualdesertion. It was time, he said to himself, that the foot of Authoritywas set firmly down, and the strong right hand of Justice allowed toput in some energetic work. His comments on the team's fielding thatmorning were bitter and sarcastic. His eyes gleamed behind theirpince-nez.

　　The painful interview took place after breakfast. The head of thehouse despatched his fag in search of Mike, and waited. He paced upand down the room like a hungry lion, adjusting his pince-nez (athing, by the way, which lions seldom do) and behaving in otherrespects like a monarch of the desert. One would have felt, looking athim, that Mike, in coming to his den, was doing a deed which wouldmake the achievement of Daniel seem in comparison like the tentativeeffort of some timid novice.

　　And certainly Mike was not without qualms as he knocked at the door,and went in in response to the hoarse roar from the other side of it.

　　Firby-Smith straightened his tie, and glared.

　　"Young Jackson," he said, "look here, I want to know what it allmeans, and jolly quick. You weren't at house-fielding this morning.

　　Didn't you see the notice?"Mike admitted that he had seen the notice.

　　"Then you frightful kid, what do you mean by it? What?"Mike hesitated. Awfully embarrassing, this. His real reason for notturning up to house-fielding was that he considered himself above suchthings, and Firby-Smith a toothy weed. Could he give this excuse? Hehad not his Book of Etiquette by him at the moment, but he ratherfancied not. There was no arguing against the fact that the head ofthe house _was_ a toothy weed; but he felt a firm conviction thatit would not be politic to say so.

　　Happy thought: over-slept himself.

　　He mentioned this.

　　"Over-slept yourself! You must jolly well not over-sleep yourself.

　　What do you mean by over-sleeping yourself?"Very trying this sort of thing.

　　"What time did you wake up?""Six," said Mike.

　　It was not according to his complicated, yet intelligible code ofmorality to tell lies to save himself. When others were concerned hecould suppress the true and suggest the false with a face of brass.

　　"Six!""Five past.""Why didn't you get up then?""I went to sleep again.""Oh, you went to sleep again, did you? Well, just listen to me. I'vehad my eye on you for some time, and I've seen it coming on. You'vegot swelled head, young man. That's what you've got. Frightful swelledhead. You think the place belongs to you.""I don't," said Mike indignantly.

　　"Yes, you do," said the Gazeka shrilly. "You think the whole frightfulplace belongs to you. You go siding about as if you'd bought it. Justbecause you've got your second, you think you can do what you like;turn up or not, as you please. It doesn't matter whether I'm only inthe third and you're in the first. That's got nothing to do with it.

　　The point is that you're one of the house team, and I'm captain of it,so you've jolly well got to turn out for fielding with the others whenI think it necessary. See?"Mike said nothing.

　　"Do--you--see, you frightful kid?"[Illustration: "DO--YOU--SEE, YOU FRIGHTFUL KID?"]

　　Mike remained stonily silent. The rather large grain of truth in what............