Bob went across to Wain's to interview and soothe Firby- Smith.
He found that outraged hero sitting moodily in his study like Achilles in his tent.
Seeing Bob, he became all animation.
"Look here," he said, "I wanted to see you. You know, that frightful young brother of yours"
"I know, I know," said Bob. "Burgess was telling me. He wants kicking."
"He wants a frightful licking from the prefects," emended the aggrieved party.
"Well, I don't know, you know. Not much good lugging the prefects into it, is there? I mean, apart from everything else, not much of a catch for me, would it be, having to sit there and look on. I'm a prefect, too, you know."
Firby-Smith looked a little blank at this. He had a great admiration for Bob.
"I didn't think of you," he said.
"I thought you hadn't," said Bob. "You see it now, though, don't you?"
Firby-Smith returned to the original grievance.
"Well, you know, it was frightful cheek."
"Of course it was. Still, I think if I saw him and cursed him, and sent him up to you to apologise— How would that do?"
"All right. After all, I did run him out."
"Yes, there's that, of course. Mike's all right, really. It isn't as if he did that sort of thing as a habit."
"No. All right then."
"Thanks," said Bob, and went to find Mike.
The lecture on deportment which he read that future All-England batsman in a secluded passage near the junior day-room left the latter rather limp and exceedingly meek. For the moment all the jauntiness and exuberance had been drained out of him. He was a punctured balloon. Reflection, and the distinctly
