scores since I wrote last have
been o in a scratch game (the sun got in my eyes just as I played, and I got
bowled); 15 for the third against an eleven of masters (without G. B. Jones,
the Surrey man, and Spence); 28 not out in the Under Sixteen game; and 30 in a
form match. Rather decent. Yesterday one of the men put down for the second
against the O.W.s second couldn’t play because his father was very ill, so I
played. Wasn’t it luck? It’s the first time I’ve played for the second. I
didn’t do much, because I didn’t get an innings. They stop the cricket on O.W.
matches day because they have a hot of rotten Greek plays and things which take
up a frightful time, and half the chaps are acting, so we stop from lunch to
four. Rot I call it. So I didn’t go in, because they won the toss and made 215,
and by the time we’d made 140 for 6 it was close of play. They’d stuck me in
eighth wicket. Rather rot. Still, I may get another shot. And I made rather a
decent catch at mid-on. Low down. I had to dive for it. Bob played for the
first, but didn’t do much. He was run out after he’d got ten. I believe he’s
rather sick about it.
“Rather a rummy thing happened after lock-up. I wasn’t in it, but a
fellow called Wyatt (awfully decent chap. He’s Wain’s step-son, only they dislike
one another) told me about it. He was in it all right. There’s a dinner after
the matches on O.W. day, and some of the chaps were going back to their houses
after it when they got into a row with a lot of spivs and there was rather a
row. There was a policeman mixed up in it somehow, only I don’t quite know
where he comes in. I’ll find out and tell you next time I write. Love to
everybody. Tell Marjory I’ll write to her in a day or two.
“Your loving son,
“MIKE.”
“P.S.—I say, I suppose you couldn’t send me five bob, could you? I’m
rather broke.
“P.P.S.—Half-a-crown would do, only I’d rather it was five bob.”
And, on the back of the envelope, these words: “Or a bob would be
better than nothing.”
The
outline of the case was as Mike had stated. But there were certain details of
some importance which had not come to his notice when he sent the letter. On
the Monday they were public property.
The
thing had happened after this fashion. At the conclusion of the day’s cricket,
all those who had been playing in the four elevens which the school put into
the field against the old boys, together with the school choir, were
entertained by the headmaster to supper in the Great Hall. The banquet,
lengthened by speeches, songs, and recitations which the reciters imagined to
be songs, lasted, as a rule, till about ten o’clock, when the revellers were
supposed to go back to their houses by the nearest route, and turn in. This was
the official programme. The school usually performed it with certain
modifications and improvements.
About
midway between Wrykyn, the school, and Wrykyn, the town, there stands on an
island in the centre of the road a solitary lamp-post. It was the custom, and
had been the custom for generations back, for the diners to trudge off to this
lamp-post, dance round it for some minutes singing the school song or whatever
happened to be the popular song of the moment, and then race back to their
houses. Antiquity had given the custom a sort of sanctity, and the authorities,
if they knew—which they must have done—never interfered.
But
there were others.
Wrykyn,
the town, was peculiarly rich in “gangs of youths.” Like the vast majority of
the inhabitants of the place, they seemed to have no work of any kind
whatsoever to occupy their time, which they used, accordingly, to spend
prowling about and indulging in a mild, brainless, rural type of hooliganism.
They seldom proceeded to practical rowdyism except with the school. As a rule,
they amused themselves by shouting rude chaff. The school regarded them with a
lofty contempt, much as an Oxford man regards the townee.
been o in a scratch game (the sun got in my eyes just as I played, and I got
bowled); 15 for the third against an eleven of masters (without G. B. Jones,
the Surrey man, and Spence); 28 not out in the Under Sixteen game; and 30 in a
form match. Rather decent. Yesterday one of the men put down for the second
against the O.W.s second couldn’t play because his father was very ill, so I
played. Wasn’t it luck? It’s the first time I’ve played for the second. I
didn’t do much, because I didn’t get an innings. They stop the cricket on O.W.
matches day because they have a hot of rotten Greek plays and things which take
up a frightful time, and half the chaps are acting, so we stop from lunch to
four. Rot I call it. So I didn’t go in, because they won the toss and made 215,
and by the time we’d made 140 for 6 it was close of play. They’d stuck me in
eighth wicket. Rather rot. Still, I may get another shot. And I made rather a
decent catch at mid-on. Low down. I had to dive for it. Bob played for the
first, but didn’t do much. He was run out after he’d got ten. I believe he’s
rather sick about it.
“Rather a rummy thing happened after lock-up. I wasn’t in it, but a
fellow called Wyatt (awfully decent chap. He’s Wain’s step-son, only they dislike
one another) told me about it. He was in it all right. There’s a dinner after
the matches on O.W. day, and some of the chaps were going back to their houses
after it when they got into a row with a lot of spivs and there was rather a
row. There was a policeman mixed up in it somehow, only I don’t quite know
where he comes in. I’ll find out and tell you next time I write. Love to
everybody. Tell Marjory I’ll write to her in a day or two.
“Your loving son,
“MIKE.”
“P.S.—I say, I suppose you couldn’t send me five bob, could you? I’m
rather broke.
“P.P.S.—Half-a-crown would do, only I’d rather it was five bob.”
And, on the back of the envelope, these words: “Or a bob would be
better than nothing.”
The
outline of the case was as Mike had stated. But there were certain details of
some importance which had not come to his notice when he sent the letter. On
the Monday they were public property.
The
thing had happened after this fashion. At the conclusion of the day’s cricket,
all those who had been playing in the four elevens which the school put into
the field against the old boys, together with the school choir, were
entertained by the headmaster to supper in the Great Hall. The banquet,
lengthened by speeches, songs, and recitations which the reciters imagined to
be songs, lasted, as a rule, till about ten o’clock, when the revellers were
supposed to go back to their houses by the nearest route, and turn in. This was
the official programme. The school usually performed it with certain
modifications and improvements.
About
midway between Wrykyn, the school, and Wrykyn, the town, there stands on an
island in the centre of the road a solitary lamp-post. It was the custom, and
had been the custom for generations back, for the diners to trudge off to this
lamp-post, dance round it for some minutes singing the school song or whatever
happened to be the popular song of the moment, and then race back to their
houses. Antiquity had given the custom a sort of sanctity, and the authorities,
if they knew—which they must have done—never interfered.
But
there were others.
Wrykyn,
the town, was peculiarly rich in “gangs of youths.” Like the vast majority of
the inhabitants of the place, they seemed to have no work of any kind
whatsoever to occupy their time, which they used, accordingly, to spend
prowling about and indulging in a mild, brainless, rural type of hooliganism.
They seldom proceeded to practical rowdyism except with the school. As a rule,
they amused themselves by shouting rude chaff. The school regarded them with a
lofty contempt, much as an Oxford man regards the townee.
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