“Quite right.  I do.  But at schools where cricket is compulsory you have to overcome your private prejudices.  And in time the thing becomes a habit.  Imagine my feelings when I found that I was degenerating, little by little, into a slow left-hand bowler with a swerve.  I fought against it, but it was useless, and after a while I gave up the struggle, and drifted with the stream.  Last year, in a house match”—­Psmith’s voice took on a deeper tone of melancholy—­“I took seven for thirteen in the second innings on a hard wicket.  I did think, when I came here, that I had found a haven of rest, but it was not to be.  I turn out to-morrow.  What Comrade Outwood will say, when he finds that his keenest archaeological disciple has deserted, I hate to think.  However——­”

Mike felt as if a young and powerful earthquake had passed.  The whole face of his world had undergone a quick change.  Here was he, the recalcitrant, wavering on the point of playing for the school, and here was Psmith, the last person whom he would have expected to be a player, stating calmly that he had been in the running for a place in the Eton eleven.

Then in a flash Mike understood.  He was not by nature intuitive, but he read Psmith’s mind now.  Since the term began, he and Psmith had been acting on precisely similar motives.  Just as he had been disappointed of the captaincy of cricket at Wrykyn, so had Psmith been disappointed of his place in the Eton team at Lord’s.  And they had both worked it off, each in his own way—­Mike sullenly, Psmith whimsically, according to their respective natures—­on Sedleigh.

If Psmith, therefore, did not consider it too much of a climb-down to renounce his resolution not to play for Sedleigh, there was nothing to stop Mike doing so, as—­at the bottom of his heart—­he wanted to do.

“By Jove,” he said, “if you’re playing, I’ll play.  I’ll write a note to Adair now.  But, I say—­” he stopped—­“I’m hanged if I’m going to turn out and field before breakfast to-morrow.”

“That’s all right.  You won’t have to.  Adair won’t be there himself.  He’s not playing against the M.C.C.  He’s sprained his wrist.”

CHAPTER LVI 

IN WHICH PEACE IS DECLARED

“Sprained his wrist?” said Mike.  “How did he do that?”

“During the brawl.  Apparently one of his efforts got home on your elbow instead of your expressive countenance, and whether it was that your elbow was particularly tough or his wrist particularly fragile, I don’t know.  Anyhow, it went.  It’s nothing bad, but it’ll keep him out of the game to-morrow.”

“I say, what beastly rough luck!  I’d no idea.  I’ll go round.”

“Not a bad scheme.  Close the door gently after you, and if you see anybody downstairs who looks as if he were likely to be going over to the shop, ask him to get me a small pot of some rare old jam and tell the man to chalk it up to me.  The jam Comrade Outwood supplies to us at tea is all right as a practical joke or as a food for those anxious to commit suicide, but useless to anybody who values life.”

On arriving at Mr. Downing’s and going to Adair’s study, Mike found that his late antagonist was out.  He left a note informing him of his willingness to play in the morrow’s match.  The lock-up bell rang as he went out of the house.

A spot of rain fell on his hand.  A moment later there was a continuous patter, as the storm, which had been gathering all day, broke in earnest.  Mike turned up his coat-collar, and ran back to Outwood’s.  “At this rate,” he said to himself, “there won’t be a match at all to-morrow.”

When the weather decides, after behaving well for some weeks, to show what it can do in another direction, it does the thing thoroughly.  When Mike woke the next morning the world was grey and dripping.  Leaden-coloured clouds drifted over the sky, till there was not a trace of blue to be seen, and then the rain began again, in the gentle, determined way rain has when it means to make a day of it.

It was one of those bad days when one sits in the pavilion, damp and depressed, while figures in mackintoshes, with discoloured buckskin boots, crawl miserably about the field in couples.

Mike, shuffling across to school in a Burberry, met Adair at Downing’s gate.

These moments are always difficult.  Mike stopped—­he could hardly walk on as if nothing had happened—­and looked down at his feet.

“Coming across?” he said awkwardly.

“Right ho!” said Adair.

They walked on in silence.

“It’s only about ten to, isn’t it?” said Mike.

Adair fished out his watch, and examined it with an elaborate care born of nervousness.

“About nine to.”

“Good.  We’ve got plenty of time.”

“Yes.”

“I hate having to hurry over to school.”

“So do I.”

“I often do cut it rather fine, though.”

“Yes.  So do I.”

“Beastly nuisance when one does.”

“Beastly.”

“It’s only about a couple of minutes from the houses to the school, I should think, shouldn’t you?”

“Not much more.  Might be three.”

“Yes.  Three if one didn’t hurry.”

“Oh, yes, if one didn’t hurry.”

Another silence.