Why?"
Robinson rocked on the table.
"Why, old Downing fancies himself as a bowler. You _must_ play,
and knock the cover off him."
"Masters don't play in house matches, surely?"
"This isn't a real house match. Only a friendly. Downing always turns
out on Mid-term Service day. I say, do play."
"Think of the rag."
"But the team's full," said Mike.
"The list isn't up yet. We'll nip across to Barnes' study, and make
him alter it."
They dashed out of the room. From down the passage Mike heard yells of
"_Barnes_!" the closing of a door, and a murmur of excited
conversation. Then footsteps returning down the passage.
Barnes appeared, on his face the look of one who has seen visions.
"I say," he said, "is it true? Or is Stone rotting? About Wrykyn, I
mean."
"Yes, I was in the team."
Barnes was an enthusiastic cricketer. He studied his _Wisden_,
and he had an immense respect for Wrykyn cricket.
"Are you the M. Jackson, then, who had an average of fifty-one point
nought three last year?"
[Illustration: "ARE YOU THE M. JACKSON, THEN, WHO HAD AN AVERAGE OF
FIFTY-ONE POINT NOUGHT THREE LAST YEAR?"]
"Yes."
Barnes's manner became like that of a curate talking to a bishop.
"I say," he said, "then--er--will you play against Downing's to-morrow?"
"Rather," said Mike. "Thanks awfully.
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