“Jove, I was nearly asleep. What’s the time? Just on six? Didn’t know it was so late.”
“I ought to be getting back soon, I think. Lock-up’s at half-past.”
“Up with the anchor, then. You can tackle that rope with two hands now, eh? We are not observed. Don’t fall overboard. I’m going to shove her off.”
“There’ll be another telegram, I should think,” said Mike, as they reached the school gates.
“Shall we go and look?”
They walked to the shop.
A second piece of grey paper had been pinned up under the first. Mike pushed his way through the crowd. It was a longer message this time.
It ran as follows:
“Geddington 247 (Burgess six wickets, Neville-Smith four).
Wrykyn 270 for nine (Berridge 86, Marsh 58, Jackson 48).”
Mike worked his way back through the throng, and rejoined his uncle.