The more he considered the Gazeka’s insignificance and futility and his own magnificence, the more outrageous did it seem that he should be dragged out of bed to please Firby-Smith’s vapid mind. Here was he, about to receive his first eleven colours on this very day probably, being ordered about, inconvenienced--in short, put upon by a worm who had only just scraped into the third. Was this right, he asked himself. Was this proper? And the hands of the watch moved round to twenty to. What was the matter with his fielding? _It_ was all right. Make the rest of the team fag about, yes. But not a chap who, dash it all, had got his first _for_ fielding! It was with almost a feeling of self-righteousness that Mike turned over on his side and went to sleep again. And outside in the cricket-field, the massive mind of the Gazeka was filled with rage, as it was gradually borne in upon him that this was not a question of mere lateness--which, he felt, would be bad enough, for when he said six-thirty he meant six-thirty--but of actual desertion. It was time, he said to himself, that the foot of Authority was set firmly down, and the strong right hand of Justice allowed to put in some energetic work. His comments on the team’s fielding that morning were bitter and sarcastic. His eyes gleamed behind their pince-nez. The painful interview took place after breakfast. The head of the house despatched his fag in search of Mike, and waited. He paced up and down the room like a hungry lion, adjusting his pince-nez (a thing, by the way, which lions seldom do) and behaving in other respects like a monarch of the desert. One would have felt, looking at him, that Mike, in coming to his den, was doing a deed which would make the achievement of Daniel seem in comparison like the tentative effort of some timid novice. And certainly Mike was not without qualms as he knocked at the door, and went in in response to the hoarse roar from the other side of it. Firby-Smith straightened his tie, and glared. “Young Jackson,” he said, “look here, I want to know what it all means, and jolly quick. You weren’t at house-fielding this morning. Didn’t you see the notice?” Mike admitted that he had seen the notice. “Then you frightful kid, what do you mean by it? What?” Mike hesitated. Awfully embarrassing, this. His real reason for not turning up to house-fielding was that he considered himself above such things, and Firby-Smith a toothy weed. Could he give this excuse? He had not his Book of Etiquette by him at the moment, but he rather fancied not. There was no arguing against the fact that the head of the house _was_ a toothy weed; but he felt a firm conviction that it would not be politic to say so. Happy thought: over-slept himself. He mentioned this. “Over-slept yourself! You must jolly well not over-sleep yourself. What do you mean by over-sleeping yourself?” Very trying this sort of thing. “What time did you wake up?” “Six,” said Mike.