The first comment on this momentous piece of news came from Bob Jackson. Bob was eighteen. The following term would be his last at Wrykyn, and, having won through so far without the infliction of a small brother, he disliked the prospect of not being allowed to finish as he had begun. “I say!” he said. “What?” “He ought to have gone before,” said Mr. Jackson. “He’s fifteen. Much too old for that private school. He has had it all his own way there, and it isn’t good for him.” “He’s got cheek enough for ten,” agreed Bob. “Wrykyn will do him a world of good.” “We aren’t in the same house. That’s one comfort.” Bob was in Donaldson’s. It softened the blow to a certain extent that Mike should be going to Wain’s. He had the same feeling for Mike that most boys of eighteen have for their fifteen-year-old brothers. He was fond of him in the abstract, but preferred him at a distance. Marjory gave tongue again. She had rescued the jam from Phyllis, who had shown signs of finishing it, and was now at liberty to 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?”