Mike walked on, weighing this remark, and gradually made up his mind. It must be remembered that he was in a confused mental condition, and that the only thing he realised clearly was that Bob had pulled him out of an uncommonly nasty hole. It seemed to him that it was necessary to repay Bob. He thought the thing over more fully during school, and his decision remained unaltered. On the evening before the Geddington match, just before lock-up, Mike tapped at Burgess’s study door. He tapped with his right hand, for his left was in a sling. “Come in!” yelled the captain. “Hullo!” “I’m awfully sorry, Burgess,” said Mike. “I’ve crocked my wrist a bit.” “How did you do that? You were all right at the nets?” “Slipped as I was changing,” said Mike stolidly. “Is it bad?” “Nothing much. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to play to-morrow.” “I say, that’s bad luck. Beastly bad luck. We wanted your batting, too. Be all right, though, in a day or two, I suppose?” “Oh, yes, rather.” “Hope so, anyway.” “Thanks. Good-night.” “Good-night.” And Burgess, with the comfortable feeling that he had managed to combine duty and pleasure after all, wrote a note to Bob at Donaldson’s, telling him to be ready to start with the team for Geddington by the 8.54 next morning. CHAPTER XVI AN EXPERT EXAMINATION Mike’s Uncle John was a wanderer on the face of the earth. He had been an army surgeon in the days of his youth, and, after an adventurous career, mainly in Afghanistan, had inherited enough money to keep him in comfort for the rest of his life. He had thereupon left the service, and now spent most of his time flitting from one spot of Europe to another. He had been dashing up to Scotland on the day when Mike first became a Wrykynian, but a few weeks in an uncomfortable hotel in Skye and a few days in a comfortable one in Edinburgh had left him with the impression that he had now seen all that there was to be seen in North Britain and might reasonably shift his camp again. Coming south, he had looked in on Mike’s people for a brief space, and, at the request of Mike’s mother, took the early express to Wrykyn in order to pay a visit of inspection. His telegram arrived during morning school. Mike went down to the station to meet him after lunch. Uncle John took command of the situation at once. “School playing anybody to-day, Mike? I want to see a match.” “They’re playing Geddington. Only it’s away. There’s a second match on.” “Why aren’t you--Hullo, I didn’t see. What have you been doing to yourself?” “Crocked my wrist a bit. It’s nothing much.” “How did you do that?” “Slipped while I was changing after cricket.” “Hurt?” “Not much, thanks.” “Doctor seen it?” “No. But it’s really nothing. Be all right by Monday.” “H’m. Somebody ought to look at it. I’ll have a look later on.” Mike did not appear to relish this prospect. “It isn’t anything, Uncle John, really. It doesn’t matter a bit.”