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EXPERT EXAMINATION

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      Mike’s Uncle John was a wanderer on the face of the earth.; He had been an army surgeon in the days of his youth, and, after an adventurous career, mainly in Afghanistan, had inherited enough money to keep him in comfort for the rest of his life.; He had thereupon left the service, and now spent most of his time flitting from one spot of Europe to another.; He had been dashing up to Scotland on the day when Mike first became a Wrykynian, but a few weeks in an uncomfortable hotel in Skye and a few days in a comfortable one in Edinburgh had left him with the impression that he had now seen all that there was to be seen in North Britain and might reasonably shift his camp again.

      Coming south, he had looked in on Mike’s people for a brief space, and, at the request of Mike’s mother, took the early express to Wrykyn in order to pay a visit of inspection.

      His telegram arrived during morning school.; Mike went down to the station to meet him after lunch.

      Uncle John took command of the situation at once.

      “School playing anybody to-day, Mike?; I want to see a match.”

      “They’re playing Geddington.; Only it’s away.; There’s a second match on.”

      “Why aren’t you—­Hullo, I didn’t see.; What have you been doing to yourself?”

      “Crocked my wrist a bit.; It’s nothing much.”

      “How did you do that?”

      “Slipped while I was changing after cricket.”

      “Hurt?”

      “Not much, thanks.”

      “Doctor seen it?”

      “No.; But it’s really nothing.; Be all right by Monday.”

      “H’m.; Somebody ought to look at it.; I’ll have a look later on.”

      Mike did not appear to relish this prospect.

      “It isn’t anything, Uncle John, really.; It doesn’t matter a bit.”

      “Never mind.; It won’t do any harm having somebody examine it who knows a bit about these things.; Now, what shall we do.; Go on the river?”

      “I shouldn’t be able to steer.”

      “I could manage about that.; Still, I think I should like to see the place first.; Your mother’s sure to ask me if you showed me round.; It’s like going over the stables when you’re stopping at a country-house.; Got to be done, and better do it as soon as possible.”

      It is never very interesting playing the part of showman at school.; Both Mike and his uncle were inclined to scamp the business.; Mike pointed out the various landmarks without much enthusiasm—­it is only after one has left a few years that the school buildings take to themselves romance—­and Uncle John said, “Ah yes, I see.; Very nice,” two or three times in an absent voice; and they passed on to the cricket field, where the second eleven were playing a neighbouring engineering school.; It was a glorious day.; The sun had never seemed to Mike so bright or the grass so green.; It was one of those days when the ball looks like a large vermilion-coloured football as it leaves the bowler’s hand.; If ever there was a day when it seemed to Mike that a century would have been a certainty, it was this Saturday.; A sudden, bitter realisation of all he had given up swept over him, but he choked the feeling down.; The thing was done, and it was no good brooding over the might-have-beens now.; Still—­And the Geddington ground was supposed to be one of the easiest scoring grounds of all the public schools!

      “Well hit, by George!” remarked Uncle John, as Trevor, who had gone in first wicket for the second eleven, swept a half-volley to leg round to the bank where they were sitting.

      “That’s Trevor,” said Mike.; “Chap in Donaldson’s.; The fellow at the other end is Wilkins.; He’s in the School House.; They look as if they were getting set.; By Jove,” he said enviously, “pretty good fun batting on a day like this.”

      Uncle John detected the envious note.

      “I suppose you would have been playing here but for your wrist?”

      “No, I was playing for the first.”

      “For the first?; For the school!; My word, Mike, I didn’t know that.; No wonder you’re feeling badly treated.; Of course, I remember your father saying you had played once for the school, and done well; but I thought that was only as a substitute.; I didn’t know you were a regular member of the team.; What bad luck.; Will you get another chance?”

      “Depends on Bob.”

      “Has Bob got your place?”

      Mike nodded.

      “If he does well to-day, they’ll probably keep him in.”

      “Isn’t there room for both of you?”

      “Such a lot of old colours.; There are only three vacancies, and Henfrey got one of those a week ago.; I expect they’ll give one of the other two to a bowler, Neville-Smith, I should think, if he does well against Geddington.; Then there’ll be only the last place left.”

      “Rather awkward, that.”

      “Still, it’s Bob’s last year.; I’ve got plenty of time.; But I wish I could get in this year.”

      After they had watched the match for an hour, Uncle John’s restless nature asserted itself.

      “Suppose we go for a pull on the river now?” he suggested.

      They got up.

      “Let’s just call at the shop,” said Mike.; “There ought to be a telegram from Geddington by this time.; I wonder how Bob’s got on.”

      Apparently Bob had not had a chance yet of distinguishing himself.; The telegram read, “Geddington 151 for four.; Lunch.”

      “Not bad that,” said Mike.; “But I believe they’re weak in bowling.”

      They walked down the road towards the school landing-stage.

      “The worst of a school,” said Uncle John, as he pulled up-stream with strong, unskilful stroke, “is that one isn’t allowed to smoke on the grounds.; I badly want a pipe.; The next piece of shade that you see, sing out, and we’ll put in there.”

      “Pull your left,” said Mike.; “That willow’s what you want.”

      Uncle John looked over his shoulder, caught a crab, recovered himself, and steered the boat in under the shade of the branches.

      “Put the rope over that stump.; Can you manage with one hand?; Here, let me—­Done it?; Good.; A-ah!”

      He blew a great cloud of smoke into the air, and sighed contentedly.

      “I hope you don’t smoke, Mike?”

      “No.”

      “Rotten trick for a boy.; When you get to my age you need it.; Boys ought to be thinking about keeping themselves fit and being good at games.; Which reminds me.; Let’s have a look at the wrist.”

      A hunted expression came into Mike’s eyes.

      “It’s really nothing,” he began, but his uncle had already removed the sling, and was examining the arm with the neat rapidity of one who has been brought up to such things.

      To Mike it seemed as if everything in the world was standing still and waiting.; He could hear nothing but his own breathing.

      His uncle pressed the wrist gingerly once or twice, then gave it a little twist.

      “That hurt?” he asked.

      “Ye—­no,” stammered Mike.

      Uncle John looked up sharply.; Mike was crimson.

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