The annoying part of the thing was that he had nobody to talk to about it. Until the news was official he could not mention it to the common herd. It wouldn’t do. The only possible confidant was Wyatt. And Wyatt was at Bisley, shooting with the School Eight for the Ashburton. For bull’s-eyes as well as cats came within Wyatt’s range as a marksman. Cricket took up too much of his time for him to be captain of the Eight and the man chosen to shoot for the Spencer, as he would otherwise almost certainly have been; but even though short of practice he was well up in the team. Until he returned, Mike could tell nobody. And by the time he returned the notice would probably be up in the Senior Block with the other cricket notices. In this fermenting state Mike went into the house. The list of the team to play for Wain’s _v_. Seymour’s on the following Monday was on the board. As he passed it, a few words scrawled in pencil at the bottom caught his eye. “All the above will turn out for house-fielding at 6.30 to-morrow morning.--W. F.-S.” “Oh, dash it,” said Mike, “what rot! Why on earth can’t he leave us alone!” For getting up an hour before his customary time for rising was not among Mike’s favourite pastimes. Still, orders were orders, he felt. It would have to be done. CHAPTER XIX MIKE GOES TO SLEEP AGAIN Mike was a stout supporter of the view that sleep in large quantities is good for one. He belonged to the school of thought which holds that a man becomes plain and pasty if deprived of his full spell in bed. He aimed at the peach-bloom complexion. To be routed out of bed a clear hour before the proper time, even on a summer morning, was not, therefore, a prospect that appealed to him. When he woke it seemed even less attractive than it had done when he went to sleep. He had banged his head on the pillow six times over-night, and this silent alarm proved effective, as it always does. Reaching out a hand for his watch, he found that it was five minutes past six. This was to the good. He could manage another quarter of an hour between the sheets. It would only take him ten minutes to wash and get into his flannels. He took his quarter of an hour, and a little more. He woke from a sort of doze to find that it was twenty-five past. Man’s inability to get out of bed in the morning is a curious thing. One may reason with oneself clearly and forcibly without the slightest effect. One knows that delay means inconvenience. Perhaps it may spoil one’s whole day. And one also knows that a single resolute heave will do the trick. But logic is of no use. One simply lies there. Mike thought he would take another minute. And during that minute there floated into his mind the question, Who _was_ Firby-Smith? That was the point. Who _was_ he, after all? This started quite a new train of thought. Previously Mike had firmly intended to get up--some time. Now he began to waver.