turn her
mind to less pressing matters. Mike was her special ally, and anything
that affected his fortunes affected her.

"Hooray! Mike's going to Wrykyn. I bet he gets into the first eleven
his first term."

"Considering there are eight old colours left," said Bob loftily,
"besides heaps of last year's seconds, it's hardly likely that a kid
like Mike'll get a look in. He might get his third, if he sweats."

The aspersion stung Marjory.

"I bet he gets in before you, anyway," she said.

Bob disdained to reply. He was among those heaps of last year's
seconds to whom he had referred. He was a sound bat, though lacking
the brilliance of his elder brothers, and he fancied that his cap was
a certainty this season. Last year he had been tried once or twice.
This year it should be all right.

Mrs. Jackson intervened.

"Go on with your breakfast, Marjory," she said. "You mustn't say 'I
bet' so much."

Marjory bit off a section of her slice of bread-and-jam.

"Anyhow, I bet he does," she muttered truculently through it.

There was a sound of footsteps in the passage outside. The door
opened, and the missing member of the family appeared. Mike Jackson
was tall for his age. His figure was thin and wiry. His arms and legs
looked a shade too long for his body. He was evidently going to be
very tall some day. In face, he was curiously like his brother Joe,
whose appearance is familiar to every one who takes an interest in
first-class cricket. The resemblance was even more marked on the
cricket field. Mike had Joe's batting style to the last detail. He was
a pocket edition of his century-making brother. "Hullo," he said,
"sorry I'm late."

This was mere stereo. He had made the same remark nearly every morning
since the beginning of the holidays.

"All right, Marjory, you little beast," was his reference to the
sponge incident.

His third remark was of a practical nature.

"I say, what's under that dish?"

"Mike," began Mr. Jackson--this again was stereo--"you really must
learn to be more punctual----"

He was interrupted by a chorus.

"Mike, you're going to Wrykyn next term," shouted Marjory.

"Mike, father's just had a letter to say you're going to Wrykyn next
term." From Phyllis.

"Mike, you're going to Wrykyn." From Ella.

Gladys Maud Evangeline, aged three, obliged with a solo of her own
composition, in six-eight time, as follows: "Mike Wryky. Mike Wryky.
Mike Wryke Wryke Wryke Mike Wryke Wryke Mike Wry