arlitt's
mind was massive, but his topics of conversation were not Mike's.

"Mr. Barlitt speaks very highly of Sedleigh," added Mr. Jackson.

Mike said nothing, which was a good deal better than saying what he
would have liked to have said.

CHAPTER XXXI

SEDLEIGH

The train, which had been stopping everywhere for the last half-hour,
pulled up again, and Mike, seeing the name of the station, got up,
opened the door, and hurled a Gladstone bag out on to the platform in
an emphatic and vindictive manner. Then he got out himself and looked
about him.

"For the school, sir?" inquired the solitary porter, bustling up, as
if he hoped by sheer energy to deceive the traveller into thinking
that Sedleigh station was staffed by a great army of porters.

Mike nodded. A sombre nod. The nod Napoleon might have given if
somebody had met him in 1812, and said, "So you're back from Moscow,
eh?" Mike was feeling thoroughly jaundiced. The future seemed wholly
gloomy. And, so far from attempting to make the best of things, he had
set himself deliberately to look on the dark side. He thought, for
instance, that he had never seen a more repulsive porter, or one more
obviously incompetent than the man who had attached himself with a
firm grasp to the handle of the bag as he strode off in the direction
of the luggage-van. He disliked his voice, his appearance, and the
colour of his hair. Also the boots he wore. He hated the station, and
the man who took his ticket.

"Young gents at the school, sir," said the porter, perceiving from
Mike's _distrait_ air that the boy was a stranger to the place,
"goes up in the 'bus mostly. It's waiting here, sir. Hi, George!"

"I'll walk, thanks," said Mike frigidly.

"It's a goodish step, sir."

"Here you are."

"Thank you, sir. I'll send up your luggage by the 'bus, sir. Which
'ouse was it you was going to?"

"Outwood's."

"Right, sir. It's straight on up this road to the school. You can't
miss it, sir."

"Worse luck," said Mike.

He walked off up the road, sorrier for himself than ever. It was such
absolutely rotten luck. About now, instead of being on his way to a
place where they probably ran a diabolo team instead of a cricket
eleven, and played hunt-the-slipper in winter, he would be on the
point of arriving at Wrykyn. And as captain of cricket, at that. Which
was the bitter part of it. He had never been in command. For the last
two seasons he had been the star man, going