“I do not understand you, Fenn.”
“I thought you might wish to apologise for slanging me in front of the fags.”
It is wonderful what a difference the last straw will make in one’s demeanour to a person.
“Apologise! I think you forget whom it is you are speaking to.”
When a master makes this well-worn remark, the wise youth realises that the time has come to close the conversation. All Fenn’s prudence, however, had gone to the four winds.
“If you wanted to tell me I was not fit to be head of the house, you needn’t have done it before a roomful of fags. How do you think I can keep order in the house if you do that sort of thing?”
Mr. Kay overcame his impulse to end the interview abruptly in order to put in a thrust.
“You do not keep order in the house, Fenn,” he said, acidly.
“I do when I am not interfered with.”
“You will be good enough to say ‘sir’ when you speak to me, Fenn,” said Mr. Kay, thereby scoring another point. In the stress of the moment, Fenn had not noticed the omission.
He was silenced. And before he could recover himself, Mr. Kay was in his study, and there was a closed, forbidding door between them.
And as he stared at it, it began slowly to dawn upon Fenn that he had not shown up to advantage in the recent interview. In a word, he had made a fool of himself.
III
The Final House-Match
Blackburn’s took the field at three punctually on the following afternoon, to play out the last act of the final house-match. They were not without some small hope of victory, for curious things happen at cricket, especially in the fourth innings of a match. And runs are admitted to be easier saved than made. Yet seventy-nine seemed an absurdly small score to try and dismiss a team for, and in view of the fact that that team contained a batsman like Fenn, it seemed smaller still. But Jimmy Silver, resolutely as he had declared victory impossible to his intimate friends, was not the man to depress his team by letting it become generally known that he considered Blackburn’s chances small.
“You must work like niggers in the field,” he said; “don’t give away a run. Seventy-nine isn’t much to make, but if we get Fenn out for a few, they won’t come near it.”
He did not add that in his opinion Fenn would take very good care that he did not get out for a few. It was far more likely that he would make that seventy-nine off his own bat in a dozen overs.
“You’d better begin, Kennedy,” he continued, “from the top end. Place your men where you want ’em. I should have an extra man in the deep, if I were you. That’s where Fenn kept putting them last innings. And you’ll want a short leg, only for goodness sake keep them off the leg-side if you can. It’s a safe four to Fenn every time if you don’t. Look out, you chaps. Man in.”
Kay’s first pair were coming down the pavilion steps.
Challis, going to his place at short slip, called Silver’s attention to a remarkable fact.
“Hullo,” he said, “why isn’t Fenn coming in first?”
“What! By Jove, nor he is. That’s queer. All the better for us. You might get a bit finer, Challis, in case they snick ’em.”
Wayburn, who had accompanied Fenn to the wicket at the beginning of Kay’s first innings, had now for his partner one Walton, a large, unpleasant-looking youth, said to be a bit of a bruiser, and known to be a black sheep. He was one of those who made life at Kay’s so close an imitation of an Inferno. His cricket was of a rustic order. He hit hard and high. When allowed to do so, he hit often. But, as a rule, he left early, a prey to the slips or deep fields. Today was no exception to that rule.
Kennedy’s first ball was straight and medium-paced. It was a little too short, however, and Walton, letting go at it with a semicircular sweep like the drive of a golfer, sent it soaring over mid-on’s head and over the boundary. Cheers from the pavilion.
Kennedy bowled his second ball with the same purposeful air, and Walton swept at it as before. There was a click, and Jimmy Silver, who was keeping wicket, took the ball comfortably on a level with his chin.
“How’s that?”
The umpire’s hand went up, and Walton went out—reluctantly, murmuring legends of how he had not gone within a yard of the thing.
It was only when the next batsman who emerged from the pavilion turned out to be his young brother and not Fenn, that Silver began to see that something was wrong. It was conceivable that Fenn might have chosen to go in first wicket down instead of opening the batting, but not that he should go in second wicket. If Kay’s were to win it was essential that he should begin to bat as soon as possible. Otherwise there might be no time for him to knock off the runs. However good a batsman is, he can do little if no one can stay with him.
There was no time to question the newcomer. He must control his curiosity until the fall of the next wicket.
“Man in,” he said.
Billy Silver was in many ways a miniature edition of his brother, and he carried the resemblance into his batting. The head of Blackburn’s was stylish, and took no risks. His brother had not yet developed a style, but he was very settled in his mind on the subject of risks. There was no tempting him with half-volleys and long-hops. His motto was defence, not defiance. He placed a straight bat in the path of every ball, and seemed to consider his duty done if he stopped it.
The remainder of the over was, therefore, quiet. Billy played Kennedy’s fastest like
