It is the curious instinct which prompts most people to rub a thing inthat makes the lot of the average convert an unhappy one. Only thevery self-controlled can refrain from improving the occasion andscoring off the convert. Most leap at the opportunity.

　　It was so in Mike's case. Mike was not a genuine convert, but to Mr.

　　Downing he had the outward aspect of one. When you have beenimpressing upon a non-cricketing boy for nearly a month that(_a_) the school is above all a keen school, (_b_) that allmembers of it should play cricket, and (_c_) that by not playingcricket he is ruining his chances in this world and imperilling themin the next; and when, quite unexpectedly, you come upon this boydressed in cricket flannels, wearing cricket boots and carrying acricket bag, it seems only natural to assume that you have convertedhim, that the seeds of your eloquence have fallen on fruitful soil andsprouted.

　　Mr. Downing assumed it.

　　He was walking to the field with Adair and another member of his teamwhen he came upon Mike.

　　"What!" he cried. "Our Jackson clad in suit of mail and armed for thefray!"This was Mr. Downing's No. 2 manner--the playful.

　　"This is indeed Saul among the prophets. Why this sudden enthusiasmfor a game which I understood that you despised? Are our opponents soreduced?"Psmith, who was with Mike, took charge of the affair with a languidgrace which had maddened hundreds in its time, and which never failedto ruffle Mr. Downing.

　　"We are, above all, sir," he said, "a keen house. Drones are notwelcomed by us. We are essentially versatile. Jackson, thearchaeologist of yesterday, becomes the cricketer of to-day. It is theright spirit, sir," said Psmith earnestly. "I like to see it.""Indeed, Smith? You are not playing yourself, I notice. Yourenthusiasm has bounds.""In our house, sir, competition is fierce, and the Selection Committeeunfortunately passed me over."* * * * *There were a number of pitches dotted about over the field, for therewas always a touch of the London Park about it on Mid-term Serviceday. Adair, as captain of cricket, had naturally selected the best forhis own match. It was a good wicket, Mike saw. As a matter of fact thewickets at Sedleigh were nearly always good. Adair had infected theground-man with some of his own keenness, with the result that thatonce-leisurely official now found himself sometimes, with a kind ofmild surprise, working really hard. At the beginning of the previousseason Sedleigh had played a scratch team from a neighbouring town on awicket which, except for the creases, was absolutely undistinguishablefrom the surrounding turf, and behind the pavilion after the matchAdair had spoken certain home truths to the ground-man. The latter'sreformation had dated from that moment.

　　* * * * *Barnes, timidly jubilant, came up to Mike with the news that he hadwon the toss, and the request that Mike would go in first with him.

　　In stories of the "Not Really a Duffer" type, where the nervous newboy, who has been found crying in the boot-room over the photograph ofhis sister, contrives to get an innings in a game, nobody suspectsthat he is really a prodigy till he hits the Bully's first ball out ofthe ground for six.

　　With Mike it was different. There was no pitying smile on Adair's faceas he started his run preparatory to sending down the first ball.

　　Mike, on the cricket field, could not have looked anything but acricketer if he had turned out in a tweed suit and hobnail boots.

　　Cricketer was written all over him--in his walk, in the way he tookguard, in his stand at the wickets. Adair started to bowl with thefeeling that this was somebody who had more than a little knowledge ofhow to deal with good bowling and punish bad.

　　Mike started cautiously. He was more than usually anxious to make runsto-day, and he meant to take no risks till he could afford to do so.

　　He had seen Adair bowl at the nets, and he knew that he was good.

　　The first over was a maiden, six dangerous balls beautifully played.

　　The fieldsmen changed over.

　　The general interest had now settled on the match between Outwood'sand Downing's. The fact in Mike's case had gone round the field, and,as several of the other games had not yet begun, quite a large crowdhad collected near the pavilion to watch. Mike's masterly treatment ofthe opening over had impressed the spectators, and there was a populardesire to see how he would deal with Mr. Downing's slows. It wasgenerally anticipated that he would do something special with them.

　　Off the first ball of the master's over a leg-bye was run.

　　Mike took guard.

　　Mr. Downing was a bowler with a style of his own. He took two shortsteps, two long steps, gave a jump, took three more short steps, andended with a combination of step and jump, during which the ballemerged from behind his back and started on its slow career tothe wicket. The whole business had some of the dignity of theold-fashioned minuet, subtly blended with the careless vigour ofa cake-walk. The ball, when delivered, was billed to break fromleg, but the programme was subject to alterations.

　　If the spectators had expected Mike to begin any firework effects withthe first ball, they were disappointed. He played the over throughwith a grace worthy of his brother Joe. The last ball he turned to legfor a single.

　　His treatment of Adair's next over was freer. He had got a sight ofthe ball now. Half-way through the over a beautiful square cut forceda passage through the crowd by the pavilion, and dashed up against therails. He drove the sixth ball past cover for three.

　　The crowd was now reluctantly dispersing to its own games, but itstopped as Mr. Downing started his minuet-cake-walk, in the hope thatit might see something more sensational.

　　This time the hope was fulfilled.

　　The ball was well up, slow, and off the wicket on the on-side. Perhapsif it had been allowed to pitch, it might have broken in and becomequite dangerous. Mike went out at it, and hit it a couple of feet fromthe ground. The ball dropped with a thud and a spurting of dust in theroad that ran along one side of the cricket field.

　　It was returned on the instalment system by helpers from other games,and the bowler began his manoeuvres again. A half-volley this time.

　　Mike slammed it back, and mid-on, whose heart was obviously not in thething, failed to stop it.

　　"Get to them, Jenkins," said Mr. Downing irritably, as the ball cameback from the boundary. "Get to them.""Sir, please, sir----""Don't talk in the field, Jenkins."Having had a full-pitch hit for six and a half-volley for four, therewas a strong probability that Mr. Downing would pitch his next ballshort.

　　The expected happened. The third ball was a slow long-hop, and hit theroad at about the same spot where the first had landed. A howl ofuntuneful applause rose from the watchers in the pavilion, and Mike,with the feeling that this sort of bowling was too good to be true,waited in position for number four.

　　There are moments when a sort of panic seizes a bowler. This happenednow with Mr. Downing. He suddenly abandoned science and ran amok. Hisrun lost its stateliness and increased its vigour. He charged up tothe wicket as a wounded buffalo sometimes charges a gun. His wholeidea now was to bowl fast.

　　When a slow bowler starts to bowl fast, it is usually as well to bebatting, if you can manage it.

　　By the time the over was finished, Mike's score had been increased bysixteen, and the total of his side, in addition, by three wides.

　　And a shrill small voice, from the neighbourhood of the pavilion,uttered with painful distinctness the words, "Take him off!"That was how the most sensational day's cricket began that Sedleighhad known.

　　A description of the details of the morning's play would bemonotonous. It is enough to say that they ran on much the same linesas the third and fourth overs of the match. Mr. Downing bowled onemore over, off which Mike helped himself to sixteen runs, and thenretired moodily to cover-point, where, in Adair's fifth over, hemissed Barnes--the first occasion since the game began on which thatmild batsman had attempted to score more than a single. Scared by thisescape, Outwood's captain shrank back into his shell, sat on thesplice like a limpet, and, offering no more ............