There was, it may be mentioned, not an ounce of malice in the head of Wain’s house. That by telling the captain of cricket that Mike had shirked fielding-practice he might injure the latter’s prospects of a first eleven cap simply did not occur to him. That Burgess would feel, on being told of Mike’s slackness, much as a bishop might feel if he heard that a favourite curate had become a Mahometan or a Mumbo-Jumboist, did not enter his mind. All he considered was that the story of his dealings with Mike showed him, Firby-Smith, in the favourable and dashing character of the fellow-who-will-stand-no-nonsense, a sort of Captain Kettle on dry land, in fact; and so he proceeded to tell it in detail. Burgess parted with him with the firm conviction that Mike was a young slacker. Keenness in fielding was a fetish with him; and to cut practice struck him as a crime. He felt that he had been deceived in Mike. * * * * * When, therefore, one takes into consideration his private bias in favour of Bob, and adds to it the reaction caused by this sudden unmasking of Mike, it is not surprising that the list Burgess made out that night before he went to bed differed in an important respect from the one he had intended to write before school. Mike happened to be near the notice-board when he pinned it up. It was only the pleasure of seeing his name down in black-and-white that made him trouble to look at the list. Bob’s news of the day before yesterday had made it clear how that list would run. The crowd that collected the moment Burgess had walked off carried him right up to the board. He looked at the paper. “Hard luck!” said somebody. Mike scarcely heard him. He felt physically sick with the shock of the disappointment. For the initial before the name Jackson was R. There was no possibility of mistake. Since writing was invented, there had never been an R. that looked less like an M. than the one on that list. Bob had beaten him on the tape. CHAPTER XXI MARJORY THE FRANK At the door of the senior block Burgess, going out, met Bob coming in, hurrying, as he was rather late. “Congratulate you, Bob,” he said; and passed on. Bob stared after him. As he stared, Trevor came out of the block. “Congratulate you, Bob.” “What’s the matter now?” “Haven’t you seen?” “Seen what?” “Why the list. You’ve got your first.” “My--what? you’re rotting.” “No, I’m not. Go and look.” The thing seemed incredible. Had he dreamed that conversation between Spence and Burgess on the pavilion steps? Had he mixed up the names? He was certain that he had heard Spence give his verdict for Mike, and Burgess agree with him. Just then, Mike, feeling very ill, came down the steps. He caught sight of Bob and was passing with a feeble grin, when something told him that this was one of those occasions on which one has to show a Red Indian fortitude and stifle one’s private feelings. “Congratulate you, Bob,” he said awkwardly.