Mike and Psmith
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PSMITH
"Jackson," said Mike.
"Are you the Bully, the Pride of the School, or the Boy who is LedAstray and takes to Drink in Chapter Sixteen?"
"The last, for choice," said Mike, "but I've only just arrived, so Idon't know."
"The boy--what will he become? Are you new here, too, then?"
"Yes! Why, are you new?"
"Do I look as if I belonged here? I'm the latest import. Sit down onyonder settee, and I will tell you the painful story of my life. By theway, before I start, there's just one thing. If you ever have occasionto write to me, would you mind sticking a P at the beginning of my name?P-s-m-i-t-h. See? There are too many Smiths, and I don't care forSmythe. My father's content to worry along in the old-fashioned way, butI've decided to strike out a fresh line. I shall found a new dynasty.The resolve came to me unexpectedly this morning. I jotted it down onthe back of an envelope. In conversation you may address me as Rupert(though I hope you won't), or simply Smith, the _P_ not being sounded.Compare the name Zbysco, in which the Z is given a similarmiss-in-balk. See?"
Mike said he saw. Psmith thanked him with a certain stately old worldcourtesy.
"Let us start at the beginning," he resumed. "My infancy. When I was buta babe, my eldest sister was bribed with a shilling an hour by my nurseto keep an eye on me, and see that I did not raise Cain. At the end ofthe first day she struck for one-and-six, and got it. We now pass to myboyhood. At an early age, I was sent to Eton, everybody predicting abright career for me. But," said Psmith solemnly, fixing an owl-likegaze on Mike through the eyeglass, "it was not to be."
"No?" said Mike.
"No. I was superannuated last term."
"Bad luck."
"For Eton, yes. But what Eton loses, Sedleigh gains."
"But why Sedleigh, of all places?"
"This is the most painful part of my narrative. It seems that a certainscug in the next village to ours happened last year to collar aBalliol--"
"Not Barlitt!" exclaimed Mike.
"That was the man. The son of the vicar. The vicar told the curate, whotold our curate, who told our vicar, who told my father, who sent me offhere to get a Balliol too. Do _you_ know Barlitt?"
"His father's vicar of our village. It was because his son got a Balliolthat I was sent here."
"Do you come from Crofton?"
"Yes."
"I've lived at Lower Benford all my life. We are practically long-lostbrothers. Cheer a little, will you?"
Mike felt as Robinson Crusoe felt when he met Friday. Here was a fellowhuman being in this desert place. He could almost have embraced Psmith.The very sound of the name Lower Benford was heartening. His dislike forhis new school was not diminished, but now he felt that life there mightat least be tolerable.
"Where were you before you came here?" asked Psmith. "You have heard mypainful story. Now tell me yours."
"Wrykyn. My father took me away because I got such a lot of badreports."
"My reports from Eton were simply scurrilous. There's a libel action inevery sentence. How do you like this place, from what you've seenof it?"
"Rotten."
"I am with you, Comrade Jackson. You won't mind my calling you Comrade,will you? I've just become a socialist. It's a great scheme. You oughtto be one. You work for the equal distribution of property, and start bycollaring all you can and sitting on it. We must stick together. We arecompanions in misfortune. Lost lambs. Sheep that have gone astray.Divided, we fall, together we may worry through. Have you seen ProfessorRadium yet? I should say Mr. Outwood. What do you think of him?"
"He doesn't seem a bad sort of chap. Bit off his nut. Jawed about apsesand things."
"And thereby," said Psmith, "hangs a tale. I've been making inquiries ofa stout sportsman in a sort of Salvation Army uniform, whom I met in thegrounds--he's the school sergeant or something, quite a solid man--and Ihear that Comrade Outwood's an archaeological cove. Goes about thecountry beating up old ruins and fossils and things. There's anArchaeological Society in the school, run by him. It goes out onhalf-holidays, prowling about, and is allowed to break bounds andgenerally steep itself to the eyebrows in reckless devilry. And, markyou, laddie, if you belong to the Archaeological Society you get offcricket. To get off cricket," said Psmith, dusting his right trouserleg, "was the dream of my youth and the aspiration of my riper years. Anoble game, but a bit too thick for me. At Eton I used to have to fieldout at the nets till the soles of my boots wore through. I suppose youare a blood at the game? Play for the school against Loamshire, andso on."
"I'm not going to play here, at any rate," said Mike.
He had made up his mind on this point in the train. There is a certainfascination about making the very worst of a bad job. Achilles knew hisbusiness when he sat in his tent. The determination not to play cricketfor Sedleigh as he could not play for Wrykyn gave Mike a sort ofpleasure. To stand by with folded arms and a somber frown, as it were,was one way of treating the situation, and one not without its meedof comfort.
Psmith approved the resolve.
"Stout fellow," he said. "'Tis well. You and I, hand in hand, willsearch the countryside for ruined abbeys. We will snare the elusivefossil together. Above all, we will go out of bounds. We shall thusimprove our minds, and have a jolly good time as well. I shouldn'twonder if one mightn't borrow a gun from some friendly native, and do abit of rabbit shooting here and there. From what I saw of ComradeOutwood during our brief interview, I shouldn't think he was one of thelynx-eyed contingent. With tact we ought to be able to slip away fromthe merry throng of fossil chasers, and do a bit on our own account."
"Good idea," said Mike. "We will. A chap at Wrykyn, called Wyatt, usedto break out at night and shoot at cats with an air pistol."
"It would take a lot to make me do that. I am all against anything thatinterferes with my sleep. But rabbits in the daytime is a scheme. We'llnose about for a gun at the earliest opp. Meanwhile we'd better go up toComrade Outwood, and get our names shoved down for the Society."
"I vote we get some tea first somewhere."
"Then let's beat up a study. I suppose they have studies here. Let's goand look."
They went upstairs. On the first floor there was a passage with doors oneither side. Psmith opened the first of these.
"This'll do us well," he said.
It was a biggish room, looking out over the school grounds. There were acouple of deal tables, two empty bookcases, and a looking glass, hungon a nail.
"Might have been made for us," said Psmith approvingly.
"I suppose it belongs to some rotter."
"Not now."
"You aren't going to collar it!"
"That," said Psmith, looking at himself earnestly in the mirror, andstraightening his tie, "is the exact program. We must stake out ourclaims. This is practical socialism."
"But the real owner's bound to turn up some time or other."
"His misfortune, not ours. You can't expect two masterminds like us topig it in that room downstairs. There are moments when one wants to bealone. It is imperative that we have a place to retire to after afatiguing day. And now, if you want to be really useful, come and helpme fetch up my box from downstairs. It's got a gas ring and variousthings in it."