brother Joe, whose appearance is familiar to every one who takes an interest in first-class cricket. The resemblance was even more marked on the cricket field. Mike had Joe's batting style to the last detail. He was a pocket edition of his century-making brother. "Hullo," he said, "sorry I'm late."
This was mere stereo. He had made the same remark nearly every morning since the beginning of the holidays.
"All right, Marjory, you little beast," was his reference to the sponge incident.
His third remark was of a practical nature.
"I say, what's under that dish?"
"Mike," began Mr. Jackson—this again was stereo—"you really must learn to be more punctual"
He was interrupted by a chorus.
"Mike, you're going to Wrykyn next term," shouted Marjory.
"Mike, father's just had a letter to say you're going to Wrykyn next term." From Phyllis.
"Mike, you're going to Wrykyn." From Ella.
Gladys Maud Evangeline, aged three, obliged with a solo of her own composition, in six-eight time, as follows: "Mike Wryky. Mike Wryky. Mike Wryke Wryke Wryke Mike Wryke Wryke Mike Wryke Mike Wryke."
"Oh, put a green baize cloth over that kid, somebody," groaned Bob.
Whereat Gladys Maud, having fixed him with a chilly stare for some seconds, suddenly drew a long breath, and squealed deafeningly for more milk.
Mike looked round the table. It was a great moment. He rose to it with the utmost dignity.
"Good," he said. "I say, what's under that dish?"
After breakfast, Mike and Marjory went off together to the meadow at the end of the garden. Saunders, the professional, assisted by the gardener's boy, was engaged in putting up the net. Mr. Jackson believed in private coaching; and every spring since Joe, the eldest of the family, had been able to use a bat a man had come
