Conversation dwindled to vanishing-point. Uncle John smoked on in weighty silence, while Mike, staring up at the blue sky through the branches of the willow, let his mind wander to Geddington, where his fate was even now being sealed. How had the school got on? What had Bob done? If he made about twenty, would they give him his cap? Supposing. . . .
A faint snore from Uncle John broke in on his meditations. Then there was a clatter as a briar pipe dropped on to the floor of the boat, and his uncle sat up, gaping.
"Jove, I was nearly asleep. What's the time? Just on six? Didn't know it was so late."
"I ought to be getting back soon, I think. Lock-up's at half-past."
"Up with the anchor, then. You can tackle that rope with two hands now, eh? We are not observed. Don't fall overboard. I'm going to shove her off."
"There'll be another telegram, I should think," said Mike, as they reached the school gates.
"Shall we go and look?"
They walked to the shop.
A second piece of grey paper had been pinned up under the first. Mike pushed his way through the crowd. It was a longer message this time.
It ran as follows:
"Geddington 247 (Burgess six wickets, Neville-Smith four). Wrykyn 270 for nine (Berridge 86, Marsh 58, Jackson 48)."
Mike worked his way back through the throng, and rejoined his uncle.
"Well?" said Uncle John.
"We won."
He paused for a moment.
"Bob made forty-eight," he added carelessly.
Uncle John felt in his pocket, and silently slid a sovereign into Mike's hand.
It was the only possible reply.
