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?” 

“Mike,” began Mr. Jackson--this again was stereo--“you really must learn to be more punctual----” 

He was interrupted by a chorus. 

“Mike, you’re going to Wrykyn next term,” shouted Marjory. 

“Mike, father’s just had a letter to say you’re going to Wrykyn next term.” From Phyllis. 

 Prev. P 3/297 next