There followed an awkward silence, which Mike broke by remarking that he had carted a half-volley from Saunders over the on-side hedge that morning. “It was just a bit short and off the leg stump, so I stepped out--may I bag the paper-knife for a jiffy? I’ll just show----” “Never mind about cricket now,” said Mr. Jackson; “I want you to listen to this report.” “Oh, is that my report, father?” said Mike, with a sort of sickly interest, much as a dog about to be washed might evince in his tub. “It is,” replied Mr. Jackson in measured tones, “your report; what is more, it is without exception the worst report you have ever had.” “Oh, I say!” groaned the record-breaker. “‘His conduct,’” quoted Mr. Jackson, “‘has been unsatisfactory in the extreme, both in and out of school.’” “It wasn’t anything really. I only happened----” Remembering suddenly that what he had happened to do was to drop a cannon-ball (the school weight) on the form-room floor, not once, but on several occasions, he paused. “‘French bad; conduct disgraceful----’” “Everybody rags in French.” “‘Mathematics bad. Inattentive and idle.’” “Nobody does much work in Math.” “‘Latin poor. Greek, very poor.’” “We were doing Thucydides, Book Two, last term--all speeches and doubtful readings, and cruxes and things--beastly hard! Everybody says so.” “Here are Mr. Appleby’s remarks: ‘The boy has genuine ability, which he declines to use in the smallest degree.’” Mike moaned a moan of righteous indignation. “‘An abnormal proficiency at games has apparently destroyed all desire in him to realise the more serious issues of life.’ There is more to the same effect.” Mr. Appleby was a master with very definite ideas as to what constituted a public-school master’s duties. As a man he was distinctly pro-Mike. He understood cricket, and some of Mike’s shots on the off gave him thrills of pure aesthetic joy; but as a master he always made it his habit to regard the manners and customs of the boys in his form with an unbiased eye, and to an unbiased eye Mike in a form-room was about as near the extreme edge as a boy could be, and Mr. Appleby said as much in a clear firm hand. “You remember what I said to you about your report at Christmas, Mike?” said Mr. Jackson, folding the lethal document and replacing it in its envelope. Mike said nothing; there was a sinking feeling in his interior. “I shall abide by what I said.” Mike’s heart thumped. “You will not go back to Wrykyn next term.” Somewhere in the world the sun was shining, birds were twittering; somewhere in the world lambkins frisked and peasants sang blithely at their toil (flat, perhaps, but still blithely), but to Mike at that moment the sky was black, and an icy wind blew over the face of the earth.