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Updated: June 5, 2025
In this fermenting state Mike went into the house. The list of the team to play for Wain's v. Seymour's on the following Monday was on the board. As he passed it, a few words scrawled in pencil at the bottom caught his eye. "All the above will turn out for house-fielding at 6.30 to-morrow morning. "Oh, dash it," said Mike, "what rot! Why on earth can't he leave us alone!"
Appleby. "Wouldn't have disturbed you, only it's something important. I'll climb in through here, shall I? No need to unlock the door." And, greatly to Mr. Wain's surprise and rather to his disapproval, Mr. Appleby vaulted on to the window-sill, and squeezed through into the room. "Got some rather bad news for you, I'm afraid," began Mr. Appleby. "I'll smoke, if you don't mind. About Wyatt."
As a matter of fact, several members of his form and of the junior day-room at Wain's nearly burst themselves at that moment. At the wickets, he felt better. Bob had fallen to the last ball of the over, and Morris, standing ready for Saunders's delivery, looked so calm and certain of himself that it was impossible to feel entirely without hope and self-confidence.
"Oh, all right," said Mike. Silence. "Sugar?" asked Bob. "Thanks," said Mike. "How many lumps?" "Two, please." "Cake?" "Thanks." Silence. Bob pulled himself together. "Like Wain's?" "Ripping." "I asked Firby-Smith to keep an eye on you," said Bob. "What!" said Mike. The mere idea of a worm like the Gazeka being told to keep an eye on him was degrading.
Wain's home, when not in London, is at Bendigo Lodge, Westgate, Kent. He began his artistic career at nineteen, after a training in the best London schools. He was not a hard worker over his books, but his fondness for nature led him to an artist's career.
It was the custom at Wrykyn, when you congratulated a man on getting colours, to shake his hand. They shook hands. "Thanks, awfully, Bob," said Mike. And after that there seemed to be nothing much to talk about. So Mike edged out of the room, and tore across to Wain's. It had been his one ambition, and now he had achieved it.
"Well," he said, "you played a very decent innings this afternoon, and I suppose you're frightfully pleased with yourself, eh? Well, mind you don't go getting swelled head. See? That's all. Run along." Mike departed, bursting with fury. The next link in the chain was forged a week after the Gentlemen of the County match. House matches had begun, and Wain's were playing Appleby's.
But when he did wish to get out into the open country he had a special route which he always took. He climbed down from the wall that ran beneath the dormitory window into the garden belonging to Mr. Appleby, the master who had the house next to Mr. Wain's. Crossing this, he climbed another wall, and dropped from it into a small lane which ended in the main road leading to Wrykyn town.
I will not have this lax and reckless behaviour." "But the burglar, sir?" said Wyatt. "We might catch him, sir," said Mike. Mr. Wain's manner changed to a slow and stately sarcasm, in much the same way as a motor-car changes from the top speed to its first.
He turned down his lamp, and walked round to Wain's. There was a light in one of the ground-floor windows. He tapped on the window, and the sound of a chair being pushed back told him that he had been heard. The blind shot up, and he had a view of a room littered with books and papers, in the middle of which stood Mr. Wain, like a sea-beast among rocks. Mr.
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