team like a shot, whatever his batting was like, if his fielding was something extra special. So you field like a demon this afternoon, and I'll carry on the good work in the evening."
"I say," said Mike, overcome, "it's awfully decent of you, Wyatt."
Billy Burgess, captain of Wrykyn cricket, was a genial giant, who seldom allowed himself to be ruffled. The present was one of the rare occasions on which he permitted himself that luxury. Wyatt found him in his study, shortly before lock-up, full of strange oaths, like the soldier in Shakespeare.
"You rotter! You rotter! You worm!" he observed crisply, as Wyatt appeared.
"Dear old Billy!" said Wyatt. "Come on, give me a kiss, and let's be friends."
"You!"
"William! William!"
"If it wasn't illegal, I'd like to tie you and Ashe and that blackguard Adams up in a big sack, and drop you into the river. And I'd jump on the sack first. What do you mean by letting the team down like this? I know you were at the bottom of it all."
He struggled into his shirt—he was changing after a bath—and his face popped wrathfully out at the other end.
"I'm awfully sorry, Bill," said Wyatt. "The fact is, in the excitement of the moment the M.C.C. match went clean out of my mind."
"You haven't got a mind," grumbled Burgess. "You've got a cheap brown paper substitute. That's your trouble."
Wyatt turned the conversation tactfully.
"How many wickets did you get to-day?" he asked.
"Eight. For a hundred and three. I was on the spot. Young Jackson caught a hot one off me at third man. That kid's good."
"Why don't you play him against the M.C.C. on
