CHAPTER XXXII
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 downon yonder settee, and I will tell you the painful story of my life.By the way, before I start, there's just one thing. If you everhave occasion to write to me, would you mind sticking a P at thebeginning of my name? P-s-m-i-t-h. See? There are too many Smiths,and I don't care for Smythe. My father's content to worry along inthe old-fashioned way, but I've decided to strike out a fresh line.I shall found a new dynasty. The resolve came to me unexpectedly thismorning, as I was buying a simple penn'orth of butterscotch out ofthe automatic machine at Paddington. I jotted it down on the back ofan envelope. In conversation you may address me as Rupert (though Ihope you won't), or simply Smith, the P not being sounded. Cp. thename Zbysco, in which the Z is given a similar miss-in-baulk. 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 wasbut a babe, my eldest sister was bribed with a shilling an hour by mynurse to keep an eye on me, and see that I did not raise Cain. At theend of the first day she struck for one-and six, and got it. We nowpass to my boyhood. At an early age, I was sent to Eton, everybodypredicting a bright career for me. But," said Psmith solemnly, fixingan owl-like gaze on Mike through the eye-glass, "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 acertain scug in the next village to ours happened last year to collara Balliol----"
"Not Barlitt!" exclaimed Mike.
"That was the man. The son of the vicar. The vicar told the curate,who told our curate, who told our vicar, who told my father, who sentme off here to get a Balliol too. Do _you_ know Barlitt?"
"His pater's vicar of our village. It was because his son got aBalliol that 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 afellow human being in this desert place. He could almost have embracedPsmith. The very sound of the name Lower Benford was heartening. Hisdislike for his new school was not diminished, but now he felt thatlife there might at least be tolerable.
"Where were you before you came here?" asked Psmith. "You have heardmy painful story. Now tell me yours."
"Wrykyn. My pater took me away because I got such a lot of badreports."
"My reports from Eton were simply scurrilous. There's a libel actionin every sentence. How do you like this place from what you've seen ofit?"
"Rotten."
"I am with you, Comrade Jackson. You won't mind my calling youComrade, will you? I've just become a Socialist. It's a great scheme.You ought to be one. You work for the equal distribution of property,and start by collaring all you can and sitting on it. We must sticktogether. We are companions in misfortune. Lost lambs. Sheep that havegone astray. Divided, we fall, together we may worry through. Have youseen Professor Radium yet? I should say Mr. Outwood. What do you thinkof him?"
"He doesn't seem a bad sort of chap. Bit off his nut. Jawed aboutapses and things."
"And thereby," said Psmith, "hangs a tale. I've been making inquiriesof a stout sportsman in a sort of Salvation Army uniform, whom I metin the grounds--he's the school sergeant or something, quite a solidman--and I hear that Comrade Outwood's an archaeological cove. Goesabout the country beating up old ruins and fossils and things. There'san Archaeological 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,mark you, laddie, if you belong to the Archaeological Society youget off cricket. To get off cricket," said Psmith, dusting his righttrouser-leg, "was the dream of my youth and the aspiration of my riperyears. A noble game, but a bit too thick for me. At Eton I used to haveto field out at the nets till the soles of my boots wore through. Isuppose you are a blood at the game? Play for the school againstLoamshire, and so 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 knewhis business when he sat in his tent. The determination not to playcricket for Sedleigh as he could not play for Wrykyn gave Mike a sortof pleasure. To stand by with folded arms and a sombre frown, as itwere, was one way of treating the situation, and one not without itsmeed of 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 doa bit of rabbit-shooting here and there. From what I saw of ComradeOutwood during our brief interview, I shouldn't think he was one ofthe lynx-eyed contingent. With tact we ought to be able to slip awayfrom the merry throng of fossil-chasers, and do a bit on our ownaccount."
"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 anythingthat interferes with my sleep. But rabbits in the daytime is a scheme.We'll nose about for a gun at the earliest opp. Meanwhile we'd bettergo up to Comrade Outwood, and get our names shoved down for theSociety."
"I vote we get some tea first somewhere."
"Then let's beat up a study. I suppose they have studies here. Let'sgo and look."
They went upstairs. On the first floor there was a passage with doorson either 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 werea couple of deal tables, two empty bookcases, and a looking-glass,hung on 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 programme. 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 master-minds like usto pig it in that room downstairs. There are moments when one wants tobe alone. 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 an Etna and variousthings in it."
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