The Psmith Omnibus. P. G. Wodehouse

battle, they should have it.

      But the motives of the expedition were obviously friendly. Stone beamed. Robinson was laughing.

      "You're a sportsman," said Robinson.

      "What did he give you?" asked Stone.

      They sat down, Robinson on the table, Stone in Psmith's deck chair. Mike's heart warmed to them. The little disturbance in the dormitory was a thing of the past, done with, forgotten, contemporary with Julius Caesar. He felt that he, Stone and Robinson must learn to know and appreciate one another.

      There was, as a matter of fact, nothing much wrong with Stone and Robinson. They were just ordinary raggers of the type found at every public school, small and large. They were absolutely free from brain. They had a certain amount of muscle, and a vast store of animal spirits. They looked on school life purely as a vehicle for ragging. The Stones and Robinsons are the swashbucklers of the school world. They go about, loud and boisterous, with a wholehearted and cheerful indifference to other people's feelings, treading on the toes of their neighbor and shoving him off the pavement, and always with an eye wide open for any adventure. As to the kind of adventure, they are not particular so long as it promises excitement. Sometimes they go through their whole school career without accident. More often they run up against a snag in the shape of some serious-minded and muscular person, who objects to having his toes trodden on and being shoved off the pavement, and then they usually sober down, to the mutual advantage of themselves and the rest of the community.

      One's opinion of this type of youth varies according to one's point of view. Small boys whom they had occasion to kick, either from pure high spirits or as a punishment for some slip from the narrow path which the ideal small boy should tread, regarded Stone and Robinson as bullies of the genuine "Eric" and "St. Winifred's" brand. Masters were rather afraid of them. Adair had a smouldering dislike for them. They were useful at cricket, but apt not to take Sedleigh as seriously as he could have wished.

      As for Mike, he now found them pleasant company, and began to get out the tea things.

      "Those Fire Brigade meetings," said Stone, "are a rag. You can do what you like, and you never get more than a hundred lines."

      "Don't you!" said Mike. "I got Saturday afternoon."

      "What!"

      "Is Wilson in too?"

      "No. He got a hundred lines."

      Stone and Robinson were quite concerned.

      "What a beastly swindle!"

      "That's because you don't play cricket. Old Downing lets you do what you like if you join the Fire Brigade and play cricket."

      "'We are, above all, a keen school,'" quoted Stone. "Don't you ever play?"

      "I have played a bit," said Mike.

      "Well, why don't you have a shot? We aren't such flyers here. If you know one end of a bat from the other, you could get into some sort of a team. Were you at school anywhere before you came here?"

      "I was at Wrykyn."

      "Why on earth did you leave?" asked Stone. "Were you sacked?"

      "No. My father took me away."

      "Wrykyn?" said Robinson. "Are you any relation of the Jacksons there--J.W. and the others?"

      "Brother."

      "What!"

      "Well, didn't you play at all there?"

      "Yes," said Mike, "I did. I was in the team three years, and I should have been captain this year, if I'd stopped on."

      There was a profound and gratifying sensation. Stone gaped, and Robinson nearly dropped his teacup.

      Stone broke the silence.

      "But I mean to say--look here? What I mean is, why aren't you playing? Why don't you play now?"

      "I do. I play for a village near here. Place called Lower Borlock. A man who played against Wrykyn for the Free Foresters captains them. He asked me if I'd like some games for them."

      "But why not for the school?"

      "Why should I? It's much better fun for the village. You don't get ordered about by Adair, for a start."

      "Adair sticks on side," said Stone.

      "Enough for six," agreed Robinson.

      "By Jove," said Stone, "I've got an idea. My word, what a rag!"

      "What's wrong now?" inquired Mike politely.

      "Why, look here. Tomorrow's Mid-Term Service Day. It's nowhere near the middle of the term, but they always have it in the fourth week. There's chapel at half past nine till half past ten. Then the rest of the day's a whole holiday. There are always house matches. We're playing Downing's. Why don't you play and let's smash them?"

      "By Jove, yes," said Robinson. "Why don't you? They're always sticking on side because they've won the house cup three years running. I say, do you bat or bowl?"

      "Bat. Why?"

      Robinson rocked on the table.

      "Why, old Downing fancies himself as a bowler. You _must_ play, and knock the cover off him."

      "Masters don't play in house matches, surely?"

      "This isn't a real house match. Only a friendly. Downing always turns out on Mid-Term Service Day. I say, do play."

      "Think of the rag."

      "But the team's full," said Mike.

      "The list isn't up yet. We'll nip across to Barnes's study, and make him alter it."

      They dashed out of the room. From down the passage Mike heard yells of "_Barnes_!" the closing of a door, and a murmur of excited conversation. Then footsteps returning down the passage.

      Barnes appeared, on his face the look of one who has seen visions.

      "I say," he said, "is it true? Or is Stone rotting? About Wrykyn, I mean."

      "Yes, I was in the team."

      Barnes was an enthusiastic cricketer. He studied his _Wisden_, and he had an immense respect for Wrykyn cricket.

      "Are you the M. Jackson, then, who had an average of fifty-one point naught three last year?"

      "Yes."

      Barnes's manner became like that of a curate talking to a bishop.

      "I say," he said, "then--er--will you play against Downing's tomorrow?"

      "Rather," said Mike. "Thanks awfully. Have some tea?"

      11

      THE MATCH WITH DOWNING'S

      It is the curious instinct which prompts most people to rub a thing in that makes the lot of the average convert an unhappy one. Only the very self-controlled can refrain from improving the occasion and scoring 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 been impressing upon a noncricketing boy for nearly a month that (_a_) the school is above all a keen school, (_b_) that all members of it should play cricket, and (_c_) that by not playing cricket he is ruining his chances in this world and imperiling them in the next; and when, quite unexpectedly, you come upon this boy dressed in cricket flannels, wearing cricket boots and carrying a cricket bag, it seems only natural to assume that you have converted him, that the seeds of your eloquence have fallen on fruitful soil and sprouted.