The train gathered speed. The air was full of last messages. Uncle
John said on second thoughts he wasn't sure these Bocks weren't half a
bad smoke after all. Gladys Maud cried, because she had taken a sudden
dislike to the village idiot; and Mike settled himself in the corner
and opened a magazine.

He was alone in the carriage. Bob, who had been spending the last week
of the holidays with an aunt further down the line, was to board the
train at East Wobsley, and the brothers were to make a state entry
into Wrykyn together. Meanwhile, Mike was left to his milk chocolate,
his magazines, and his reflections.

The latter were not numerous, nor profound. He was excited. He had
been petitioning the home authorities for the past year to be allowed
to leave his private school and go to Wrykyn, and now the thing had
come about. He wondered what sort of a house Wain's was, and whether
they had any chance of the cricket cup. According to Bob they had no
earthly; but then Bob only recognised one house, Donaldson's. He
wondered if Bob would get his first eleven cap this year, and if he
himself were likely to do anything at cricket. Marjory had faithfully
reported every word Saunders had said on the subject, but Bob had been
so careful to point out his insignificance when compared with the
humblest Wrykynian that the professional's glowing prophecies had not
had much effect. It might be true that some day he would play for
England, but just at present he felt he would exchange his place in
the team for one in the Wrykyn third eleven. A sort of mist enveloped
everything Wrykynian. It seemed almost hopeless to try and compete
with these unknown experts. On the other hand, there was Bob. Bob, by
all accounts, was on the verge of the first eleven, and he was nothing
special.