he had each stump uprooted in a regular series in seven balls. Once he skied one of Wyatt's slows over the net behind the wicket; and Mike, jumping up, caught him neatly.
"Thanks," said Bob austerely, as Mike returned the ball to him. He seemed depressed.
Towards the end of the afternoon, Wyatt went up to Burgess.
"Burgess," he said, "see that kid sitting behind the net?"
"With the naked eye," said Burgess. "Why?"
"He's just come to Wain's. He's Bob Jackson's brother, and I've a sort of idea that he's a bit of a bat. I told him I'd ask you if he could have a knock. Why not send him in at the end net? There's nobody there now."
Burgess's amiability off the field equalled his ruthlessness when bowling.
"All right," he said. "Only if you think that I'm going to sweat to bowl to him, you're making a fatal error."
"You needn't do a thing. Just sit and watch. I rather fancy this kid's something special."
Mike put on Wyatt's pads and gloves, borrowed his bat, and walked round into the net.
"Not in a funk, are you?" asked Wyatt, as he passed.
Mike grinned. The fact was that he had far too good an opinion of himself to be nervous. An entirely modest person seldom makes a good batsman. Batting is one of those things which demand first and foremost a thorough belief in oneself. It need not be aggressive, but it must be there.
Wyatt and the professional were the bowlers. Mike had seen enough of Wyatt's bowling to know that it was merely ordinary "slow tosh," and the professional did not look as difficult as Saunders. The first half-dozen balls he played carefully. He was on trial, and he meant to take no risks. Then the professional over--
