His uncle pressed the wrist gingerly once or twice, then gave it a little twist.
"That hurt?" he asked.
"Ye—no," stammered Mike.
Uncle John looked up sharply. Mike was crimson.
"What's the game?" inquired Uncle John.
Mike said nothing.
There was a twinkle in his uncle's eyes.
"May as well tell me. I won't give you away. Why this wounded warrior business when you've no more the matter with you than I have?"
Mike hesitated.
"I only wanted to get out of having to write this morning. There was an exam. on."
The idea had occurred to him just before he spoke. It had struck him as neat and plausible.
To Uncle John it did not appear in the same light.
"Do you always write with your left hand? And if you had gone with the first eleven to Geddington, wouldn't that have got you out of your exam.? Try again."
When in doubt, one may as well tell the truth. Mike told it.
"I know. It wasn't that, really. Only"
"Well?"
"Oh, well, dash it all then. Old Bob got me out of an awful row the day before yesterday, and he seemed a bit sick at not playing for the first, so I thought I might as well let him. That's how it was. Look here, swear you won't tell him."
Uncle John was silent. Inwardly he was deciding that the five shillings which he had intended to bestow on Mike on his departure should become a sovereign. (This, it may be mentioned as an interesting biographical fact, was the only occasion in his life on which Mike earned money at the rate of fifteen shillings a half-minute.)
"Swear you won't tell him. He'd be most frightfully sick if he knew."
"I won't tell him."
