“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 about the world telling people things solely for their good. He was only doing 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 were you. 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’ve been all right up to now. What I mean to say is, you’ve got on so well at cricket, in the third and so on, there’s just a chance you might start to side about a bit soon, if you don’t watch yourself. I’m not saying a word against you so far, of course. Only you see what I mean.”
Mike’s feelings were too deep for words. In sombre silence he reached out for the jam; while Bob, satisfied that he had delivered his message in a pleasant and tactful manner, filled his cup, and cast about 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 what you’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 some thundering 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 go on breaking rules you’re bound to be sooner or later. Thing is, it doesn’t matter much for him, because he’s leaving at the end of the term. But don’t let him drag you into anything. Not that he would try to. 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 his composition.
“What rot!” said Mike.
“All right. But don’t you go doing it. I’m going over to the nets. I see Burgess has shoved you down for them. You’d better be going and changing. Stick on here a bit, though, if you want any more tea. I’ve got to be off myself.”
Mike changed for net-practice in a ferment of spiritual injury. It was maddening to be treated as an infant who had to be looked after. He felt very sore against Bob.
A good innings at the third eleven net, followed by some strenuous fielding 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 of Wain’s.
“Ah, I wanted to see you, young man,” he said. (Mike disliked being called “young man.”) “Come up to my study.”
Mike followed him in silence to his study, and preserved his silence till Firby-Smith, having deposited his cricket-bag in a corner of the room and examined himself carefully in a looking-glass that hung over the 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 think of 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 the age when one is most sensitive to patronage and most resentful of it.
“I promised I would,” said the Gazeka, turning round and examining himself in the mirror again. “You’ll get on all right if you behave yourself. Don’t make a frightful row in the house. Don’t cheek your elders and betters. Wash. That’s all. Cut along.”
Mike had a vague idea of sacrificing his career to the momentary pleasure of flinging a chair at the head of the house. Overcoming this feeling, he walked out of the room, and up to his dormitory to change.
In the dormitory that night the feeling of revolt, of wanting to do something actively illegal, increased. Like Eric, he burned, not with shame and remorse, but with rage and all that sort of thing. He dropped off to sleep full of half-formed plans for asserting himself. He was awakened from a dream in which he was batting against Firby-Smith’s bowling, and hitting it into space every time, by a slight sound. He opened his eyes, and saw a dark figure silhouetted against 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 beauty sleep.”
