ery day probably,
being ordered about, inconvenienced--in short, put upon by a worm who
had only just scraped into the third.

Was this right, he asked himself. Was this proper?

And the hands of the watch moved round to twenty to.

What was the matter with his fielding? _It_ was all right. Make
the rest of the team fag about, yes. But not a chap who, dash it all,
had got his first _for_ fielding!

It was with almost a feeling of self-righteousness that Mike turned
over on his side and went to sleep again.

And outside in the cricket-field, the massive mind of the Gazeka was
filled with rage, as it was gradually borne in upon him that this was
not a question of mere lateness--which, he felt, would be bad enough,
for when he said six-thirty he meant six-thirty--but of actual
desertion. It was time, he said to himself, that the foot of Authority
was set firmly down, and the strong right hand of Justice allowed to
put in some energetic work. His comments on the team's fielding that
morning were bitter and sarcastic. His eyes gleamed behind their
pince-nez.

The painful interview took place after breakfast. The head of the
house despatched his fag in search of Mike, and waited. He paced up
and down the room like a hungry lion, adjusting his pince-nez (a
thing, by the way, which lions seldom do) and behaving in other
respects like a monarch of the desert. One would have felt, looking at
him, that Mike, in coming to his den, was doing a deed which would
make the achievement of Daniel seem in comparison like the tentative
effort of some timid novice.

And certainly Mike was not without qualms as he knocked at the door,
and went in in response to the hoarse roar from the other side of it.

Firby-Smith straightened his tie, and glared.

"Young Jackson," he said, "look here, I want to know what it all
means, and jolly quick. You weren't at house-fielding this morning.
Didn't you see the notice?"

Mike admitted that he had seen the notice.

"Then you frightful kid, what do you mean by it? What?"

Mike hesitated. Awfully embarrassing, this. His real reason for not
turning up to house-fielding was that he considered himself above such
things, and Firby-Smith a toothy weed. Could he give this excuse? He
had not his Book of Etiquette by him at the moment, but he rather
fancied not. There was no arguing against the fact that the head of
the house _was_ a toothy weed; but he felt a firm conviction that
it would not be po