"Outwood's."

"Right, sir. It's straight on up this road to the school. You can't miss
it, sir."

"Worse luck," said Mike.

He walked off up the road, sorrier for himself than ever. It was such
absolutely rotten luck. About now, instead of being on his way to a
place where they probably ran a Halma team instead of a cricket eleven,
and played hunt-the-slipper in winter, he would be on the point of
arriving at Wrykyn. And as captain of cricket, at that. Which was the
bitter part of it. He had never been in command. For the last two
seasons he had been the star man, going in first, and heading the
averages easily at the end of the season; and the three captains under
whom he had played during his career as a Wrykynian, Burgess, Enderby,
and Henfrey, had always been sportsmen to him. But it was not the same
thing. He had meant to do such a lot for Wrykyn cricket this term. He
had had an entirely new system of coaching in his mind. Now it might
never be used. He had handed it on in a letter to Strachan, who would be
captain in his place; but probably Strachan would have some scheme of
his own. There is nobody who could not edit a paper in the ideal way;
and there is nobody who has not a theory of his own about cricket
coaching at school.

Wrykyn, too, would be weak this year, now that he was no longer there.
Strachan was a good, free bat on his day, and, if he survived a few
overs, might make a century in an hour, but he was not to be depended
upon. There was no doubt that Mike's sudden withdrawal meant that Wrykyn