e 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 Wednesday?" said Wyatt,
jumping at his opportunity.

"What? Are you sitting on my left shoe?"

"No. There it is in the corner."

"Right ho!... What were you saying?"

"Why not play young Jackson for the first?"

"Too small."

"Rot. What does size matter? Cricket isn't footer. Besides, he isn't
small. He's as tall as I am."

"I suppose he is. Dash, I've dropped my stud."

Wyatt waited patiently till he had retrieved it. Then he returned to
the attack.

"He's as good a bat as his brother, and a better field."

"Old Bob can't field for toffee. I will say that for him. Dropped a
sitter off me to-day. Why the deuce fellows can't hold catches when
they drop slowly into their mouths I'm hanged if I can see."

"You play him," said Wyatt. "Just give him a trial. That kid's a
genius at cricket. He's going to be better than any of his brothers,
even Joe. Give him a shot."

Burgess hesitated.

"You know, it's a bit risky," he said. "With you three lunatics out of
the team we can't afford to try many experiments. Better stick to the
men at the top of the second."

Wyatt got up, and kicked the wall as a vent for his feelings.

"You rotter," he said. "Can't you _see_ when you've got a good
man? Here's this kid waiting for you ready made with a style like
Trumper's, and you rave about top men in the second, chaps who play
forward at everything, and pat half-volleys back to the bowler! Do you
realise that your only chance of being known to Posterity is as the
man who gave M. Jackson his colours at Wrykyn? In a few years he'll be
playing for England, and you'll think it a favour if he nods to you in
the pav. at Lord's. When you're a white-haired old man you'll go
doddering about, gassing to your grandchildren, poor kids, how you
'discovered' M. Jackson. It'll be the only thing they'l