"No, that's a comfort," said Mike philosophically. "Think there's any
more tea in that pot?"

"I call it a shame," said Marjory; "they ought to be jolly glad to have
you at Wrykyn just for cricket, instead of writing beastly reports that
make father angry and don't do any good to anybody."

"Last Christmas he said he'd take me away if I got another one."

"He didn't mean it really, I _know_ he didn't! He couldn't! You're the
best bat Wrykyn's ever had."

"What ho!" interpolated Mike.

"You _are_. Everybody says you are. Why, you got your first the very
first term you were there--even Joe didn't do anything nearly so good as
that. Saunders says you're simply bound to play for England in another
year or two."

"Saunders is a jolly good chap. He bowled me a half volley on the off
the first ball I had in a school match. By the way, I wonder if he's out
at the net now. Let's go and see."

Saunders the professional was setting up the net when they arrived. Mike
put on his pads and went to the wicket, while Marjory and the dogs
retired as usual to the far hedge to retrieve.

She was kept busy. Saunders was a good sound bowler of the M.C.C. minor
match type, and there had been a time when he had worried Mike
considerably, but Mike had been in the Wrykyn team for three seasons