Outwood's rollicked considerably that night. Mike, if he had cared totake the part, could have been the Petted Hero. But a cordialinvitation from the senior day-room to be the guest of the evening atabout the biggest rag of the century had been refused on the plea offatigue. One does not make two hundred and seventy-seven runs on a hotday without feeling the effects, even if one has scored mainly by themedium of boundaries; and Mike, as he lay back in Psmith's deck-chair,felt that all he wanted was to go to bed and stay there for a week.
His hands and arms burned as if they were red-hot, and his eyes wereso tired that he could not keep them open.
Psmith, leaning against the mantelpiece, discoursed in a desultory wayon the day's happenings--the score off Mr. Downing, the undeniableannoyance of that battered bowler, and the probability of his ventinghis annoyance on Mike next day.
"In theory," said he, "the manly what-d'you-call-it of cricket and allthat sort of thing ought to make him fall on your neck to-morrow andweep over you as a foeman worthy of his steel. But I am prepared tobet a reasonable sum that he will give no Jiu-jitsu exhibition of thiskind. In fact, from what I have seen of our bright little friend, Ishould say that, in a small way, he will do his best to make itdistinctly hot for you, here and there.""I don't care," murmured Mike, shifting his aching limbs in the chair.
"In an ordinary way, I suppose, a man can put up with having hisbowling hit a little. But your performance was cruelty to animals.
Twenty-eight off one over, not to mention three wides, would have madeJob foam at the mouth. You will probably get sacked. On the otherhand, it's worth it. You have lit a candle this day which can never beblown out. You have shown the lads of the village how ComradeDowning's bowling ought to be treated. I don't suppose he'll ever takeanother wicket.""He doesn't deserve to."Psmith smoothed his hair at the glass and turned round again.
"The only blot on this day of mirth and good-will is," he said, "thesingular conduct of our friend Jellicoe. When all the place wasringing with song and merriment, Comrade Jellicoe crept to my side,and, slipping his little hand in mine, touched me for three quid."This interested Mike, fagged as he was.
"What! Three quid!""Three jingling, clinking sovereigns. He wanted four.""But the man must be living at the rate of I don't know what. It wasonly yesterday that he borrowed a quid from _me_!""He must be saving money fast. There appear to be the makings of afinancier about Comrade Jellicoe. Well, I hope, when he's collectedenough for his needs, he'll pay me back a bit. I'm pretty well cleanedout.""I got some from my brother at Oxford.""Perhaps he's saving up to get married. We may be helping towardsfurnishing the home. There was a Siamese prince fellow at my dame's atEton who had four wives when he arrived, and gathered in a fifthduring his first summer holidays. It was done on the correspondencesystem. His Prime Minister fixed it up at the other end, and sent himthe glad news on a picture post-card. I think an eye ought to be kepton Comrade Jellicoe."* * * * *Mike tumbled into bed that night like a log, but he could not sleep.
He ached all over. Psmith chatted for a time on human affairs ingeneral, and then dropped gently off. Jellicoe, who appeared to bewrapped in gloom, contributed nothing to the conversation.
After Psmith had gone to sleep, Mike lay for some time running over inhis mind, as the best substitute for sleep, the various points of hisinnings that day. He felt very hot and uncomfortable.
Just as he was wondering whether it would not be a good idea to get upand have a cold bath, a voice spoke from the darkness at his side.
"Are you asleep, Jackson?""Who's that?""Me--Jellicoe. I can't get to sleep.""Nor can I. I'm stiff all over.""I'll come over and sit on your bed."There was a creaking, and then a weight descended in the neighbourhoodof Mike's toes.
Jellicoe was apparently not in conversational mood. He uttered no wordfor quite three minutes. At the end of which time he gave a soundmidway between a snort and a sigh.
"I say, Jackson!" he said.
"Yes?""Have you--oh, nothing."Silence again.
"Jackson.""Hullo?""I say, what would your people say if you got sacked?""All sorts of things. Especially my pater. Why?""Oh, I don't know. So would mine.""Everybody's would, I expect.""Yes."The bed creaked, as Jellicoe digested these great thoughts. Then hespoke again.
"It would be a jolly beastly thing to get sacked."Mike was too tired to give his mind to the subject. He was not reallylistening. Jellicoe droned on in a depressed sort of way.
"You'd get home in the middle of the afternoon, I suppose, and you'ddrive up to the house, and the servant would open the door, and you'dgo in. They might all be out, and then you'd have to hang about, andwait; and presently you'd hear them come in, and you'd go out into thepassage, and they'd say 'Hullo!'"Jellicoe, in order to give verisimilitude, as it were, to an otherwisebald and unconvincing narrative, flung so much agitated surprise intothe last word that it woke Mike from a troubled doze into which he hadfallen.
"Hullo?" he said. "What's up?""Then you'd say. 'Hullo!' And then they'd say, 'What are you doinghere? 'And you'd say----""What on earth are you talking about?""About what would happen.""Happen when?""When you got home. After being sacked, you know.""Who's been sacked?" Mike's mind was still under a cloud.
"Nobody. But if you were, I meant. And then I suppose there'd be anawful row and general sickness, and all that. And then you'd be sentinto a bank, or to Australia, or something."Mike dozed off again.
"My pater would be frightfully sick. My mater would be sick. My sisterwould be jolly sick, too. Have you got any sisters, Jackson? I say,Jackson!""Hullo! What's the matter? Who's that?""Me--Jellicoe.""What's up?""I asked you if you'd got any sisters.""Any _what_?""Sisters.""Whose sisters?""Yours. I asked if you'd got any.""Any what?""Sisters.""What about them?"The conversation was becoming too intricate for Jellicoe. He changedthe subject.
"I say, Jackson!""Well?""I say, you don't know any one who could lend me a pound, do you?""What!" cried Mike, sitting up in bed and staring through the darknessin the direction whence the numismatist's voice was proceeding. "Do_what_?""I say, look out. You'll wake Smith.""Did you say you wanted some one to lend you a quid?""Yes," said Jellicoe eagerly. "Do you know any one?"Mike's head throbbed. This thing was too much. The human brain couldnot be expected to cope with it. Here was a youth who had borrowed apound from one friend the day before, and three pounds from anotherfriend that very afternoon, already looking about him for furtherloans. Was it a hobby, or was he saving up to buy an aeroplane?
"What on earth do you want a pound for?""I don't want to tell anybody. But it's jolly serious. I shall getsacked if I don't get it."Mike pondered.
Those who have followed Mike's career as set forth by the presenthistorian will have realised by this time that he was a good long wayfrom being perfect. As the Blue-Eyed Hero he would have been a rankfailure. Except on the cricket field, where he was a natural genius,he was just ordinary. He resembled ninety per cent. of other membersof English public schools. He had some virtues and a good manydefects. He was as obstinate as a mule, though people whom he likedcould do as they pleased with him. He was good-natured as a generalthing, but on occasion his temper could be of the worst, and had, inhis childhood, been the subject of much adverse comment among hisaunts. He was rigidly truthful, where the issue concerned onlyhimself. Where it was a case of saving a friend, he was prepared toact in a manner reminiscent of an American expert witness.
He had, in addition, one good quality without any defect to balanceit. He was always ready to help people. And when he set himself to dothis, he was never put off by discomfort or risk. He went at the thingwith a singleness of purpose that asked no questions.
Bob's postal order, which had arrived that evening, was reposing inthe breast-pocket of his coat.
It was a wrench, but, if the situation was so serious with Jellicoe,it had to be done.
* * * * *Two minutes later the night was being made hideous by Jellicoe'salmost tearful protestations of gratitude, and the postal order hadmoved from one side of the dormitory to the other.
Mike woke next morning with a confused memory of having listened to agreat deal of incoherent conversation from Jellicoe, and a painfullyvivid recollection of handing over the bulk of his worldly wealth tohim. The thought depressed him, though it seemed to please Jellicoe,for the latter carolled in a gay undertone as he dressed, till Psmith,who had a sensitive ear, asked as a favour that these farm-yardimitations might cease until he was out of the room.
There were other things to make Mike low-spirited that morning. Tobegin with, he was in detention, which in itself is enough to spoil aday. It was a particularly fine day, which made the matter worse. Inaddition to this, he had never felt stiffer in his life. It seemed tohim that the creaking of his joints as he walked must be audible toevery one within a radius of several yards. Finally, there was theinterview with Mr. Downing to come. That would probably be unpleasant.
As Psmith had said, Mr. Downing was the sort of master who would belikely to make trouble. The great match had not been an ordinarymatch. Mr. Downing was a curious man in many ways, but he did not makea fuss on ordinary occasions when his bowling proved expensive.
Yesterday's performance, however, stood in a class by itself. It stoodforth without disguise as a deliberate rag. One side does not keepanother in the field the whole day in a one-day match except as agrisly kind of practical joke. And Mr. Downing and his house realisedthis. The house's way of signifying its comprehension of the fact wasto be cold and distant as far as the seniors were concerned, andabusive and pugnacious as regards the juniors. Young blood had beenshed overnight, and more flowed during the eleven o'clock intervalthat morning to avenge the insult.
Mr. Downing's methods of retaliation would have to be, of necessity,more elusive; but Mike did not doubt that in some way or other hisform-master would endeavour to get a bit of his own back.
As events turned out, he was perfectly right. When a master has gothis knife into a boy, especially a master who allows himself to beinfluenced by his likes and dislikes, he is inclined to single him outin times of stress, and savage him as if he were the officialrepresentative of the evildoers. Just as, at sea, the skipper, when hehas trouble with the crew, works it off on the boy.
Mr. Downing was in a sarcastic mood when he met Mike. That is to say,he began in a sarcastic strain. But this sort of thing is difficult tokeep up. By the time he had reached his peroration, the rapier hadgiven place to the bludgeon. For sarcasm to be effective, the user ofit must be met half-way. His hearer must appear to be conscious of thesarcasm and moved by it. Mike, when masters waxed sarcastic towardshim, always assumed an air of stolid stupidity, which was as a suit ofmail against satire.
So Mr. Downing came down from the heights with a run, and began toexpress himself with a simple strength which it did his form good tolisten to. Veterans who had been in the form for terms said afterwardsthat there had been nothing to touch it, in their experience of theorator, since the glorious day when Dunster, that prince of raggers,who had left at Christmas to go to a crammer's, had introduced threelively grass-snakes into the room during a Latin lesson.
"You are surrounded," concluded Mr. Downing, snapping his pencil intwo in his emotion, "by an impenetrable mass of conceit and vanity andselfishness. It does not occur to you to admit your capabilities as acricketer in an open, straightforward way and place them at thedisposal of the school. No, that would not be dramatic enough for you.
It would be too commonplace altogether. Far too commonplace!" Mr.
Downing laughed bitterly. "No, you must conceal your capabilities. Youmust act a lie. You must--who is that shuffling his feet? I will nothave it, I _will_ have silence--you must hang back in order tomake a more effective entrance, like some wretched actor who--I will_not_ have this shuffling. I have spoken of this before. Macpherson,are you shuffling your feet?""Sir, no, sir.""Please, sir.""Well, Parsons?""I think it's the noise of the draught under the door, sir."Instant departure of Parsons for the outer regions. And, in theexcitement of this side-issue, the speaker lost his inspiration, andabruptly concluded his remarks by putting Mike on to translate inCicero. Which Mike, who happened to have prepared the first half-page,did with much success.
* * * * *The Old Boys' match was timed to begin shortly after eleven o'clock.
During the interval most of the school walked across the field to lookat the pitch. One or two of the Old Boys had already changed and werepractising in front of the pavilion.
It was through one of these batsmen that an accident occurred whichhad a good deal of influence on Mike's affairs.
Mike had strolled out by himself. Half-way across the field Jellicoejoined him. Jellicoe was cheerful, and rather embarrassingly grateful.
He was just in the middle of his harangue when the accident happened.
To their left, as they crossed the field, a long youth, with the faintbeginnings of a moustache and a blazer that lit up the surroundinglandscape like a glowing beacon, was lashing out recklessly at afriend's bowling. Already he had gone within an ace of slaying a smallboy. As Mike and Jellicoe proceeded on their way, there was a shout of"Heads!"The almost universal habit of batsmen of shouting "Heads!" at whateverheight from the ground the ball may be, is not a little confusing. Theaverage person, on hearing the shout, puts his hands over his skull,crouches down and trusts to luck. This is an excellent plan if theball is falling, but is not much protection against a skimming drivealong the ground.
When "Heads!" was called on the present occasion, Mike and Jellicoeinstantly assumed the crouching attitude.
Jellicoe was the first to abandon it. He uttered a yell and spranginto the air. After which he sat down and began to nurse his ankle.
The bright-blazered youth walked up.
"Awfully sorry, you know, man. Hurt?"Jellicoe was pressing the injured spot tenderly with his finger-tips,uttering sharp howls whenever, zeal outrunning discretion, he proddedhimself too energetically.
"Silly ass, Dunster," he groaned, "slamming about like that.""Awfully sorry. But I did yell.""It's swelling up rather," said Mike. "You'd better get over to thehouse and have it looked at. Can you walk?"Jellicoe tried, but sat down again with a loud "Ow!" At that momentthe bell rang.
"I shall have to be going in," said Mike, "or I'd have helped youover.""I'll give you a hand," said Dunster.
He helped the sufferer to his feet and they staggered off together,Jellicoe hopping, Dunster advancing with a sort of polka step. Mikewatched them start and then turned to go in.
There is only one thing to be said in favour of detention on a finesummer's afternoon, and that is that it is very pleasant to come outof. The sun never seems so bright or the turf so green as during thefirst five minutes after one has come out of the detention-room. Onefeels as if one were entering a new and very delightful world. Thereis also a touch of the Rip van Winkle feeling. Everything seems tohave gone on and left one behind. Mike, as he walked to the cricketfield, felt very much behind the times.
Arriving on the field he found the Old Boys batting. He stopped andwatched an over of Adair's. The fifth ball bowled a man. Mike made hisway towards the pavilion.
Before he got there he heard his name called, and turning, foundPsmith seated under a tree with the bright-blazered Dunster.
"Return of the exile," said Psmith. "A joyful occasion tinged withmelancholy. Have a cherry?--take one or two. These little acts ofunremembered kindness are what one needs after a couple of hours inextra pupil-room. Restore your tissues, Comrade Jackson, and when youhave finished those, apply again.
"Is your name Jackson?" inquired Dunster, "because Jellicoe wants tosee you.""Alas, poor Jellicoe!" said Psmith. "He is now prone on his bed in thedormitory--there a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Jellicoe, the darling ofthe crew, faithful below he did his duty, but Comrade Dunster hasbroached him to. I have just been hearing the melancholy details.""Old Smith and I," said Dunster, "were at a private school together.
I'd no idea I should find him here.""It was a wonderfully stirring sight when we met," said Psmith; "notunlike the meeting of Ulysses and the hound Argos, of whom you havedoubtless read in the course of your dabblings in the classics. I wasUlysses; Dunster gave a life-like representation of the faithfuldawg.""You still jaw as much as ever, I notice," said the animal delineator,fondling the beginnings of his moustache.
"More," sighed Psmith, "more. Is anything irritating you?" he added,eyeing the other's manoeuvres with interest.
"You needn't be a funny ass, man," said Dunster, pained; "heaps ofpeople tell me I ought to have it waxed.""What it really wants is top-dressing with guano. Hullo! another manout. Adair's bowling better to-day than he did yesterday.""I heard about yesterday," said Dunster. "It must have been a rag!
Couldn't we work off some other rag on somebody before I go? I shallbe stopping here till Monday in the village. Well hit, sir--Adair'sbowling is perfectly simple if you go out to it.""Comrade Dunster went out to it first ball," said Psmith to Mike.
"Oh! chuck it, man; the sun was in my eyes. I hear Adair's got a matchon with the M.C.C. at last.""Has he?" said Psmith; "I hadn't heard. Archaeology claims somuch of my time that I have little leisure for listening to cricketchit-chat.""What was it Jellicoe wanted?" asked Mike; "was it anythingimportant?""He seemed to think so--he kept telling me to tell you to go and seehim.""I fear Comrade Jellicoe is a bit of a weak-minded blitherer----""Did you ever hear of a rag we worked off on Jellicoe once?" askedDunster. "The man has absolutely no sense of humour--can't see whenhe's being rotted. Well it was like this--Hullo! We're all out--Ishall have to be going out to field again, I suppose, dash it! I'lltell you when I see you again.""I shall count the minutes," said Psmith.
Mike stretched himself; the sun was very soothing after his two hoursin the detention-room; he felt disinclined for exertion.
"I don't suppose it's anything special about Jellicoe, do you?" hesaid. "I mean, it'll keep till tea-time; it's no catch having to sweatacross to the house now.""Don't dream of moving," said Psmith. "I have several rather profoundobservations on life to make and I can't make them without anaudience. Soliloquy is a knack. Hamlet had got it, but probably onlyafter years of patient practice. Personally, I need some one to listenwhen I talk. I like to feel that I am doing good. You stay where youare--don't interrupt too much."Mike tilted his hat over his eyes and abandoned Jellicoe.
It was not until the lock-up bell rang that he remembered him. He wentover to the house and made his way to the dormitory, where he foundthe injured one in a parlous state, not so much physical as mental.
The doctor had seen his ankle and reported that it would be on theactive list in a couple of days. It was Jellicoe's mind that neededattention now.
Mike found him in a condition bordering on collapse.
"I say, you might have come before!" said Jellicoe.
"What's up? I didn't know there was such a hurry about it--what didyou want?""It's no good now," said Jellicoe gloomily; "it's too late, I shallget sacked.""What on earth are you talking about? What's the row?""It's about that money.""What about it?""I had to pay it to a man to-day, or he said he'd write to theHead--then of course I should get sacked. I was going to take themoney to him this afternoon, only I got crocked, so I couldn't move.
I wanted to get hold of you to ask you to take it for me--it's toolate now!"Mike's face fell. "Oh, hang it!" he said, "I'm awfully sorry. I'd noidea it was anything like that--what a fool I was! Dunster did say hethought it was something important, only like an ass I thought itwould do if I came over at lock-up.""It doesn't matter," said Jellicoe miserably; "it can't be helped.""Yes, it can," said Mike. "I know what I'll do--it's all right. I'llget out of the house after lights-out."Jellicoe sat up. "You can't! You'd get sacked if you were caught.""Who would catch me? There was a chap at Wrykyn I knew who used tobreak out every night nearly and go and pot at cats with an air-pistol;it's as easy as anything."The toad-under-the-harrow expression began to fade from Jellicoe'sface. "I say, do you think you could, really?""Of course I can! It'll be rather a rag.""I say, it's frightfully decent of you.""What absolute rot!""But, look here, are you certain----""I shall be all right. Where do you want me to go?""It's a place about a mile or two from here, called Lower Borlock.""Lower Borlock?""Yes, do you know it?""Rather! I've been playing cricket for them all the term.""I say, have you? Do you know a man called Barley?""Barley? Rather--he runs the 'White Boar'.""He's the chap I owe the money to.""Old Barley!"Mike knew the landlord of the "White Boar" well; he was the wag of thevillage team. Every village team, for some mysterious reason, has itscomic man. In the Lower Borlock eleven Mr. Barley filled the post. Hewas a large, stout man, with a red and cheerful face, who lookedexactly like the jovial inn-keeper of melodrama. He was the last manMike would have expected to do the "money by Monday-week or I write tothe headmaster" business.
But he reflected that he had only seen him in his leisure moments,when he might naturally be expected to unbend and be full of the milkof human kindness. Probably in business hours he was quite different.
After all, pleasure is one thing and business another.
Besides, five pounds is a large sum of money, and if Jellicoe owed it,there was nothing strange in Mr. Barley's doing everything he could torecover it.
He wondered a little what Jellicoe could have been doing to run up abill as big as that, but it did not occur to him to ask, which wasunfortunate, as it might have saved him a good deal of inconvenience.
It seemed to him that it was none of his business to inquire intoJellicoe's private affairs. He took the envelope containing the moneywithout question.
"I shall bike there, I think," he said, "if I can get into the shed."The school's bicycles were stored in a shed by the pavilion.
"You can manage that," said Jellicoe; "it's locked up at night, but Ihad a key made to fit it last summer, because I used to go out in theearly morning sometimes before it was opened.""Got it on you?""Smith's got it.""I'll get it from him.""I say!""Well?""Don't tell Smith why you want it, will you? I don't want anybody toknow--if a thing once starts getting about it's all over the place inno time.""All right, I won't tell him.""I say, thanks most awfully! I don't know what I should have done,I----""Oh, chuck it!" said Mike.
Mike started on his ride to Lower Borlock with mixed feelings. It ispleasant to be out on a fine night in summer, but the pleasure is to acertain extent modified when one feels that to be detected will meanexpulsion.
Mike did not want to be expelled, for many reasons. Now that he hadgrown used to the place he was enjoying himself at Sedleigh to acertain extent. He still harboured a feeling of resentment against theschool in general and Adair in particular, but it was pleasant inOutwood's now that he had got to know some of the members of thehouse, and he liked playing cricket for Lower Borlock; also, he wasfairly certain that his father would not let him go to Cambridge if hewere expelled from Sedleigh. Mr. Jackson was easy-going with hisfamily, but occasionally his foot came down like a steam-hammer, aswitness the Wrykyn school report affair.
So Mike pedalled along rapidly, being wishful to get the job donewithout delay.
Psmith had yielded up the key, but his inquiries as to why it wasneeded had been embarrassing. Mike's statement that he wanted to getup early and have a ride had been received by Psmith, with whom earlyrising was not a hobby, with honest amazement and a flood of adviceand warning on the subject.
"One of the Georges," said Psmith, "I forget which, once said that acertain number of hours' sleep a day--I cannot recall for the momenthow many--made a man something, which for the time being has slippedmy memory. However, there you are. I've given you the main idea of thething; and a German doctor says that early rising causes insanity.
Still, if you're bent on it----" After which he had handed over thekey.
Mike wished he could have taken Psmith into his confidence. Probablyhe would have volunteered to come, too; Mike would have been glad of acompanion.
It did not take him long to reach Lower Borlock. The "White Boar"stood at the far end of the village, by the cricket field. He rodepast the church--standing out black and mysterious against the lightsky--and the rows of silent cottages, until he came to the inn.
The place was shut, of course, and all the lights were out--it wassome time past eleven.
The advantage an inn has over a private house, from the point of viewof the person who wants to get into it when it has been locked up, isthat a nocturnal visit is not so unexpected in the case of the former.
Preparations have been made to meet such an emergency. Where with aprivate house you would probably have to wander round heaving rocksand end by climbing up a water-spout, when you want to get into an innyou simply ring the night-bell, which, communicating with the boots'
room, has that hard-worked menial up and doing in no time.
After Mike had waited for a few minutes there was a rattling of chainsand a shooting of bolts and the door opened.
"Yes, sir?" said the boots, appearing in his shirt-sleeves. "Why,'ullo! Mr. Jackson, sir!"Mike was well known to all dwellers in Lower Borlock, his scores beingthe chief topic of conversation when the day's labours were over.
"I want to see Mr. Barley, Jack.""He's bin in bed this half-hour back, Mr. Jackson.""I must see him. Can you get him down?"The boots looked doubtful. "Roust the guv'nor outer bed?" he said.
Mike quite admitted the gravity of the task. The landlord of the"White Boar" was one of those men who need a beauty sleep.
"I wish you would--it's a thing that can't wait. I've got some moneyto give to him.""Oh, if it's _that_--" said the boots.
Five minutes later mine host appeared in person, looking more thanusually portly in a check dressing-gown and red bedroom slippers ofthe _Dreadnought_ type.
"You can pop off, Jack."Exit boots to his slumbers once more.
"Well, Mr. Jackson, what's it all about?""Jellicoe asked me to come and bring you the money.""The money? What money?""What he owes you; the five pounds, of course.""The five--" Mr. Barley stared open-mouthed at Mike for a moment;then he broke into a roar of laughter which shook the sporting printson the wall and drew barks from dogs in some distant part of thehouse. He staggered about laughing and coughing till Mike began toexpect a fit of some kind. Then he collapsed into a chair, whichcreaked under him, and wiped his eyes.
"Oh dear!" he said, "oh dear! the five pounds!"Mike was not always abreast of the rustic idea of humour, andnow he felt particularly fogged. For the life of him he couldnot see what there was to amuse any one so much in the fact thata person who owed five pounds was ready to pay it back. It was anoccasion for rejoicing, perhaps, but rather for a solemn, thankful,eyes-raised-to-heaven kind of rejoicing.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Five pounds!""You might tell us the joke."Mr. Barley opened the letter, read it, and had another attack; whenthis was finished he handed the letter to Mike, who was waitingpatiently by, hoping for light, and requested him to read it.
"Dear, dear!" chuckled Mr. Barley, "five pounds! They may teach youyoung gentlemen to talk Latin and Greek and what not at your school,but it 'ud do a lot more good if they'd teach you how many beans makefive; it 'ud do a lot more good if they'd teach you to come in when itrained, it 'ud do----"Mike was reading the letter.
"DEAR MR. BARLEY," it ran.--"I send the ￡5, which I could not getbefore. I hope it is in time, because I don't want you to write tothe headmaster. I am sorry Jane and John ate your wife's hat andthe chicken and broke the vase."There was some more to the same effect; it was signed "T. G.
Jellicoe.""What on earth's it all about?" said Mike, finishing this curiousdocument.
Mr. Barley slapped his leg. "Why, Mr. Jellicoe keeps two dogs here; Ikeep 'em for him till the young gentlemen go home for their holidays.
Aberdeen terriers, they are, and as sharp as mustard. Mischief! Ibelieve you, but, love us! they don't do no harm! Bite up an old shoesometimes and such sort of things. The other day, last Wednesday itwere, about 'ar parse five, Jane--she's the worst of the two, alwaysup to it, she is--she got hold of my old hat and had it in bits beforeyou could say knife. John upset a china vase in one of the bedroomschasing a mouse, and they got on the coffee-room table and ate half acold chicken what had been left there. So I says to myself, 'I'll havea game with Mr. Jellicoe over this,' and I sits down and writes offsaying the little dogs have eaten a valuable hat and a chicken andwhat not, and the damage'll be five pounds, and will he kindly remitsame by Saturday night at the latest or I write to his headmaster.
Love us!" Mr. Barley slapped his thigh, "he took it all in, everyword--and here's the five pounds in cash in this envelope here! Ihaven't had such a laugh since we got old Tom Raxley out of bed attwelve of a winter's night by telling him his house was a-fire."It is not always easy to appreciate a joke of the practical order ifone has been made even merely part victim of it. Mike, as he reflectedthat he had been dragged out of his house in the middle of the night,in contravention of all school rules and discipline, simply in orderto satisfy Mr. Barley's sense of humour, was more inclined to beabusive than mirthful. Running risks is all very well when they arenecessary, or if one chooses to run them for one's own amusement, butto be placed in a dangerous position, a position imperilling one'schance of going to the 'Varsity, is another matter altogether.
But it is impossible to abuse the Barley type of man. Barley'senjoyment of the whole thing was so honest and child-like. Probably ithad given him the happiest quarter of an hour he had known for years,since, in fact, the affair of old Tom Raxley. It would have been cruelto damp the man.
So Mike laughed perfunctorily, took back the envelope with the fivepounds, accepted a stone ginger beer and a plateful of biscuits, androde off on his return journey.
* * * * *Mention has been made above of the difference which exists betweengetting into an inn after lock-up and into a private house. Mike wasto find this out for himself.
His first act on arriving at Sedleigh was to replace his bicycle inthe shed. This he accomplished with success. It was pitch-dark in theshed, and as he wheeled his machine in, his foot touched something onthe floor. Without waiting to discover what this might be, he leanedhis bicycle against the wall, went out, and locked the door, afterwhich he ran across to Outwood's.
Fortune had favoured his undertaking by decreeing that a stoutdrain-pipe should pass up the wall within a few inches of his andPsmith's study. On the first day of term, it may be remembered hehad wrenched away the wooden bar which bisected the window-frame,thus rendering exit and entrance almost as simple as they had beenfor Wyatt during Mike's first term at Wrykyn.
He proceeded to scale this water-pipe.
He had got about half-way up when a voice from somewhere below cried,"Who's that?"
These things are Life's Little Difficulties. One can never tellprecisely how one will act in a sudden emergency. The right thing forMike to have done at this crisis was to have ignored the voice,carried on up the water-pipe, and through the study window, and goneto bed. It was extremely unlikely that anybody could have recognisedhim at night against the dark background of the house. The positionthen would have been that somebody in Mr. Outwood's house had beenseen breaking in after lights-out; but it would have been verydifficult for the authorities to have narrowed the search down anyfurther than that. There were thirty-four boys in Outwood's, of whomabout fourteen were much the same size and build as Mike.
The suddenness, however, of the call caused Mike to lose his head. Hemade the strategic error of sliding rapidly down the pipe, andrunning.
There were two gates to Mr. Outwood's front garden. The carriage driveran in a semicircle, of which the house was the centre. It was fromthe right-hand gate, nearest to Mr. Downing's house, that the voicehad come, and, as Mike came to the ground, he saw a stout figuregalloping towards him from that direction. He bolted like a rabbit forthe other gate. As he did so, his pursuer again gave tongue.
"Oo-oo-oo yer!" was the exact remark.
Whereby Mike recognised him as the school sergeant.
"Oo-oo-oo yer!" was that militant gentleman's habitual way ofbeginning a conversation.
With this knowledge, Mike felt easier in his mind. Sergeant Collardwas a man of many fine qualities, (notably a talent for what he waswont to call "spott'n," a mysterious gift which he exercised on therifle range), but he could not run. There had been a time in his hotyouth when he had sprinted like an untamed mustang in pursuit ofvolatile Pathans in Indian hill wars, but Time, increasing his girth,had taken from him the taste for such exercise. When he moved now itwas at a stately walk. The fact that he ran to-night showed how theexcitement of the chase had entered into his blood.
"Oo-oo-oo yer!" he shouted again, as Mike, passing through the gate,turned into the road that led to the school. Mike's attentive earnoted that the bright speech was a shade more puffily delivered thistime. He began to feel that this was not such bad fun after all. Hewould have liked to be in bed, but, if that was out of the question,this was certainly the next best thing.
He ran on, taking things easily, with the sergeant panting in hiswake, till he reached the entrance to the school grounds. He dashed inand took cover behind a tree.
Presently the sergeant turned the corner, going badly and evidentlycured of a good deal of the fever of the chase. Mike heard him toil onfor a few yards and then stop. A sound of panting was borne to him.
Then the sound of footsteps returning, this time at a walk. Theypassed the gate and went on down the road.
The pursuer had given the thing up.
Mike waited for several minutes behind his tree. His programme now wassimple. He would give Sergeant Collard about half an hour, in case thelatter took it into his head to "guard home" by waiting at the gate.
Then he would trot softly back, shoot up the water-pipe once more, andso to bed. It had just struck a quarter to something--twelve, hesupposed--on the school clock. He would wait till a quarter past.
Meanwhile, there was nothing to be gained from lurking behind a tree.
He left his cover, and started to stroll in the direction of thepavilion. Having arrived there, he sat on the steps, looking out on tothe cricket field.
His thoughts were miles away, at Wrykyn, when he was recalled toSedleigh by the sound of somebody running. Focussing his gaze, he sawa dim figure moving rapidly across the cricket field straight for him.
His first impression, that he had been seen and followed, disappearedas the runner, instead of making for the pavilion, turned aside, andstopped at the door of the bicycle shed. Like Mike, he was evidentlypossessed of a key, for Mike heard it grate in the lock. At this pointhe left the pavilion and hailed his fellow rambler by night in acautious undertone.
The other appeared startled.
"Who the dickens is that?" he asked. "Is that you, Jackson?"Mike recognised Adair's voice. The last person he would have expectedto meet at midnight obviously on the point of going for a bicycleride.
"What are you doing out here, Jackson?""What are you, if it comes to that?"Adair was lighting his lamp.
"I'm going for the doctor. One of the chaps in our house is bad.""Oh!""What are you doing out here?""Just been for a stroll.""Hadn't you better be getting back?""Plenty of time.""I suppose you think you're doing something tremendously brave anddashing?""Hadn't you better be going to the doctor?""If you want to know what I think----""I don't. So long."Mike turned away, whistling between his teeth. After a moment's pause,Adair rode off. Mike saw his light pass across the field and throughthe gate. The school clock struck the quarter.
It seemed to Mike that Sergeant Collard, even if he had started towait for him at the house, would not keep up the vigil for more thanhalf an hour. He would be safe now in trying for home again.
He walked in that direction.
Now it happened that Mr. Downing, aroused from his first sleep by thenews, conveyed to him by Adair, that MacPhee, one of the juniormembers of Adair's dormitory, was groaning and exhibiting othersymptoms of acute illness, was disturbed in his mind. Mosthousemasters feel uneasy in the event of illness in their houses, andMr. Downing was apt to get jumpy beyond the ordinary on suchoccasions. All that was wrong with MacPhee, as a matter of fact, was avery fair stomach-ache, the direct and legitimate result of eating sixbuns, half a cocoa-nut, three doughnuts, two ices, an apple, and apound of cherries, and washing the lot down with tea. But Mr. Downingsaw in his attack the beginnings of some deadly scourge which wouldsweep through and decimate the house. He had despatched Adair for thedoctor, and, after spending a few minutes prowling restlessly abouthis room, was now standing at his front gate, waiting for Adair'sreturn.
It came about, therefore, that Mike, sprinting lightly in thedirection of home and safety, had his already shaken nerves furthermaltreated by being hailed, at a range of about two yards, with a cryof "Is that you, Adair?" The next moment Mr. Downing emerged from hisgate.
Mike stood not upon the order of his going. He was off like anarrow--a flying figure of Guilt. Mr. Downing, after the firstsurprise, seemed to grasp the situation. Ejaculating at intervalsthe words, "Who is that? Stop! Who is that? Stop!" he dashed afterthe much-enduring Wrykynian at an extremely creditable rate ofspeed. Mr. Downing was by way of being a sprinter. He had wonhandicap events at College sports at Oxford, and, if Mike hadnot got such a good start, the race might have been over in thefirst fifty yards. As it was, that victim of Fate, going well,kept ahead. At the entrance to the school grounds he led by adozen yards. The procession passed into the field, Mike headingas before for the pavilion.
As they raced across the soft turf, an idea occurred to Mike which hewas accustomed in after years to attribute to genius, the one flash ofit which had ever illumined his life.
It was this.
One of Mr. Downing's first acts, on starting the Fire Brigade atSedleigh, had been to institute an alarm bell. It had been rubbed intothe school officially--in speeches from the da?s--by the headmaster,and unofficially--in earnest private conversations--by Mr. Downing,that at the sound of this bell, at whatever hour of day or night,every member of the school must leave his house in the quickestpossible way, and make for the open. The bell might mean that theschool was on fire, or it might mean that one of the houses was onfire. In any case, the school had its orders--to get out into the openat once.
Nor must it be supposed that the school was without practice at thisfeat. Every now and then a notice would be found posted up on theboard to the effect that there would be fire drill during the dinnerhour that day. Sometimes the performance was bright and interesting,as on the occasion when Mr. Downing, marshalling the brigade at hisfront gate, had said, "My house is supposed to be on fire. Now let'sdo a record!" which the Brigade, headed by Stone and Robinson,obligingly did. They fastened the hose to the hydrant, smashed awindow on the ground floor (Mr. Downing having retired for a moment totalk with the headmaster), and poured a stream of water into the room.
When Mr. Downing was at liberty to turn his attention to the matter,he found that the room selected was his private study, most of thelight furniture of which was floating on a miniature lake. Thatepisode had rather discouraged his passion for realism, and fire drillsince then had taken the form, for the most part, of "practisingescaping." This was done by means of canvas shoots, kept in thedormitories. At the sound of the bell the prefect of the dormitorywould heave one end of the shoot out of window, the other end beingfastened to the sill. He would then go down it himself, using hiselbows as a brake. Then the second man would follow his example, andthese two, standing below, would hold the end of the shoot so that therest of the dormitory could fly rapidly down it without injury, exceptto their digestions.
After the first novelty of the thing had worn off, the schoolhad taken a rooted dislike to fire drill. It was a matter forself-congratulation among them that Mr. Downing had never beenable to induce the headmaster to allow the alarm bell to be soundedfor fire drill at night. The headmaster, a man who had his views onthe amount of sleep necessary for the growing boy, had drawn the lineat night operations. "Sufficient unto the day" had been the gist ofhis reply. If the alarm bell were to ring at night when there was nofire, the school might mistake a genuine alarm of fire for a bogusone, and refuse to hurry themselves.
So Mr. Downing had had to be content with day drill.
The alarm bell hung in the archway leading into the school grounds.
The end of the rope, when not in use, was fastened to a hook half-wayup the wall.
Mike, as he raced over the cricket field, made up his mind in a flashthat his only chance of getting out of this tangle was to shake hispursuer off for a space of time long enough to enable him to get tothe rope and tug it. Then the school would come out. He would mix withthem, and in the subsequent confusion get back to bed unnoticed.
The task was easier than it would have seemed at the beginning of thechase. Mr. Downing, owing to the two facts that he was not in thestrictest training, and that it is only an Alfred Shrubb who can runfor any length of time at top speed shouting "Who is that? Stop! Whois that? Stop!" was beginning to feel distressed. There were bellowsto mend in the Downing camp. Mike perceived this, and forced the pace.
He rounded the pavilion ten yards to the good. Then, heading for thegate, he put all he knew into one last sprint. Mr. Downing was notequal to the effort. He worked gamely for a few strides, then fellbehind. When Mike reached the gate, a good forty yards separated them.
As far as Mike could judge--he was not in a condition to make nicecalculations--he had about four seconds in which to get busy with thatbell rope.
Probably nobody has ever crammed more energetic work into four secondsthan he did then.
The night was as still as only an English summer night can be, and thefirst clang of the clapper sounded like a million iron girders fallingfrom a height on to a sheet of tin. He tugged away furiously, with aneye on the now rapidly advancing and loudly shouting figure of thehousemaster.
And from the darkened house beyond there came a gradually swellinghum, as if a vast hive of bees had been disturbed.
The school was awake.
Smith leaned against the mantelpiece in the senior day-room atOutwood's--since Mike's innings against Downing's the Lost Lambs hadbeen received as brothers by that centre of disorder, so that evenSpiller was compelled to look on the hatchet as buried--and gave hisviews on the events of the preceding night, or, rather, of thatmorning, for it was nearer one than twelve when peace had once morefallen on the school.
"Nothing that happens in this luny-bin," said Psmith, "has power tosurprise me now. There was a time when I might have thought it alittle unusual to have to leave the house through a canvas shoot atone o'clock in the morning, but I suppose it's quite the regular thinghere. Old school tradition, &c. Men leave the school, and find thatthey've got so accustomed to jumping out of window that they look onit as a sort of affectation to go out by the door. I suppose none ofyou merchants can give me any idea when the next knockaboutentertainment of this kind is likely to take place?""I wonder who rang that bell!" said Stone. "Jolly sporting idea.""I believe it was Downing himself. If it was, I hope he's satisfied."Jellicoe, who was appearing in society supported by a stick, lookedmeaningly at Mike, and giggled, receiving in answer a stony stare.
Mike had informed Jellicoe of the details of his interview with Mr.
Barley at the "White Boar," and Jellicoe, after a momentary splutterof wrath against the practical joker, was now in a particularlylight-hearted mood. He hobbled about, giggling at nothing and atpeace with all the world.
"It was a stirring scene," said Psmith. "The agility with whichComrade Jellicoe boosted himself down the shoot was a triumph of mindover matter. He seemed to forget his ankle. It was the nearest thingto a Boneless Acrobatic Wonder that I have ever seen.""I was in a beastly funk, I can tell you."Stone gurgled.
"So was I," he said, "for a bit. Then, when I saw that it was all arag, I began to look about for ways of doing the thing really well. Iemptied about six jugs of water on a gang of kids under my window.""I rushed into Downing's, and ragged some of the beds," said Robinson.
"It was an invigorating time," said Psmith. "A sort of pageant. I wasparticularly struck with the way some of the bright lads caught holdof the idea. There was no skimping. Some of the kids, to my certainknowledge, went down the shoot a dozen times. There's nothing likedoing a thing thoroughly. I saw them come down, rush upstairs, and besaved again, time after time. The thing became chronic with them. Ishould say Comrade Downing ought to be satisfied with the high stateof efficiency to which he has brought us. At any rate I hope----"There was a sound of hurried footsteps outside the door, and Sharpe, amember of the senior day-room, burst excitedly in. He seemed amused.
"I say, have you chaps seen Sammy?""Seen who?" said Stone. "Sammy? Why?""You'll know in a second. He's just outside. Here, Sammy, Sammy,Sammy! Sam! Sam!"A bark and a patter of feet outside.
"Come on, Sammy. Good dog."There was a moment's silence. Then a great yell of laughter burstforth. Even Psmith's massive calm was shattered. As for Jellicoe, hesobbed in a corner.
Sammy's beautiful white coat was almost entirely concealed by a thickcovering of bright red paint. His head, with the exception of theears, was untouched, and his serious, friendly eyes seemed toemphasise the weirdness of his appearance. He stood in the doorway,barking and wagging his tail, plainly puzzled at his reception. He wasa popular dog, and was always well received when he visited any of thehouses, but he had never before met with enthusiasm like this.
"Good old Sammy!""What on earth's been happening to him?""Who did it?"Sharpe, the introducer, had no views on the matter.
"I found him outside Downing's, with a crowd round him. Everybodyseems to have seen him. I wonder who on earth has gone and mucked himup like that!"Mike was the first to show any sympathy for the maltreated animal.
"Poor old Sammy," he said, kneeling on the floor beside the victim,and scratching him under the ear. "What a beastly shame! It'll takehours to wash all that off him, and he'll hate it.""It seems to me," said Psmith, regarding Sammy dispassionately throughhis eyeglass, "that it's not a case for mere washing. They'll eitherhave to skin him bodily, or leave the thing to time. Time, the GreatHealer. In a year or two he'll fade to a delicate pink. I don't seewhy you shouldn't have a pink bull-terrier. It would lend a touch ofdistinction to the place. Crowds would come in excursion trains to seehim. By charging a small fee you might make him self-supporting. Ithink I'll suggest it to Comrade Downing.""There'll be a row about this," said Stone.
"Rows are rather sport when you're not mixed up in them," saidRobinson, philosophically. "There'll be another if we don't start offfor chapel soon. It's a quarter to."There was a general move. Mike was the last to leave the room. As hewas going, Jellicoe stopped him. Jellicoe was staying in that Sunday,owing to his ankle.
"I say," said Jellicoe, "I just wanted to thank you again aboutthat----""Oh, that's all right.""No, but it really was awfully decent of you. You might have got intoa frightful row. Were you nearly caught?""Jolly nearly.""It _was_ you who rang the bell, wasn't it?""Yes, it was. But for goodness sake don't go gassing about it, orsomebody will get to hear who oughtn't to, and I shall be sacked.""All right. But, I say, you _are_ a chap!""What's the matter now?""I mean about Sammy, you know. It's a jolly good score off oldDowning. He'll be frightfully sick.""Sammy!" cried Mike. "My good man, you don't think I did that, do you?
What absolute rot! I never touched the poor brute.""Oh, all right," said Jellicoe. "But I wasn't going to tell any one,of course.""What do you mean?""You _are_ a chap!" giggled Jellicoe.
Mike walked to chapel rather thoughtfully.
There was just one moment, the moment in which, on going down to thejunior day-room of his house to quell an unseemly disturbance, he wasboisterously greeted by a vermilion bull terrier, when Mr. Downing wasseized with a hideous fear lest he had lost his senses. Glaring downat the crimson animal that was pawing at his knees, he clutched at hisreason for one second as a drowning man clutches at a lifebelt.
Then the happy laughter of the young onlookers reassured him.
"Who--" he shouted, "WHO has done this?"[Illustration: "WHO--" HE SHOUTED, "WHO HAS DONE THIS?"]
"Please, sir, we don't know," shrilled the chorus.
"Please, sir, he came in like that.""Please, sir, we were sitting here when he suddenly ran in, all red."A voice from the crowd: "Look at old Sammy!"The situation was impossible. There was nothing to be done. He couldnot find out by verbal inquiry who had painted the dog. Thepossibility of Sammy being painted red during the night had neveroccurred to Mr. Downing, and now that the thing had happened he had noscheme of action. As Psmith would have said, he had confused theunusual with the impossible, and the result was that he was taken bysurprise.
While he was pondering on this the situation was rendered still moredifficult by Sammy, who, taking advantage of the door being open,escaped and rushed into the road, thus publishing his condition to alland sundry. You can hush up a painted dog while it confines itself toyour own premises, but once it has mixed with the great public thisbecomes out of the question. Sammy's state advanced from a privatetrouble into a row. Mr. Downing's next move was in the same directionthat Sammy had taken, only, instead of running about the road, he wentstraight to the headmaster.
The Head, who had had to leave his house in the small hours in hispyjamas and a dressing-gown, was not in the best of tempers. He had acold in the head, and also a rooted conviction that Mr. Downing, inspite of his strict orders, had rung the bell himself on the previousnight in order to test the efficiency of the school in savingthemselves in the event of fire. He received the housemaster frostily,but thawed as the latter related the events which had led up to theringing of the bell.
"Dear me!" he said, deeply interested. "One of the boys at the school,you think?""I am certain of it," said Mr. Downing.
"Was he wearing a school cap?""He was bare-headed. A boy who breaks out of his house at night wouldhardly run the risk of wearing a distinguishing cap.""No, no, I suppose not. A big boy, you say?""Very big.""You did not see his face?""It was dark and he never looked back--he was in front of me all thetime.""Dear me!""There is another matter----""Yes?""This boy, whoever he was, had done something before he rang thebell--he had painted my dog Sampson red."The headmaster's eyes protruded from their sockets. "He--he--_what_,Mr. Downing?""He painted my dog red--bright red." Mr. Downing was too angry to seeanything humorous in the incident. Since the previous night he hadbeen wounded in his tenderest feelings. His Fire Brigade system hadbeen most shamefully abused by being turned into a mere instrument inthe hands of a malefactor for escaping justice, and his dog had beenheld up to ridicule to all the world. He did not want to smile, hewanted revenge.
The headmaster, on the other hand, did want to smile. It was not hisdog, he could look on the affair with an unbiased eye, and to himthere was something ludicrous in a white dog suddenly appearing as ared dog.
"It is a scandalous thing!" said Mr. Downing.
"Quite so! Quite so!" said the headmaster hastily. "I shall punish theboy who did it most severely. I will speak to the school in the Hallafter chapel."Which he did, but without result. A cordial invitation to the criminalto come forward and be executed was received in wooden silence by theschool, with the exception of Johnson III., of Outwood's, who,suddenly reminded of Sammy's appearance by the headmaster's words,broke into a wild screech of laughter, and was instantly awarded twohundred lines.
The school filed out of the Hall to their various lunches, and Mr.
Downing was left with the conviction that, if he wanted the criminaldiscovered, he would have to discover him for himself.
The great thing in affairs of this kind is to get a good start, andFate, feeling perhaps that it had been a little hard upon Mr. Downing,gave him a most magnificent start. Instead of having to hunt for aneedle in a haystack, he found himself in a moment in the position ofbeing set to find it in a mere truss of straw.
It was Mr. Outwood who helped him. Sergeant Collard had waylaid thearchaeological expert on his way to chapel, and informed him that atclose on twelve the night before he had observed a youth, unidentified,attempting to get into his house _via_ the water-pipe. Mr. Outwood,whose thoughts were occupied with apses and plinths, not to mentioncromlechs, at the time, thanked the sergeant with absent-mindedpoliteness and passed on. Later he remembered the fact _à propos_of some reflections on the subject of burglars in mediaeval England,and passed it on to Mr. Downing as they walked back to lunch.
"Then the boy was in your house!" exclaimed Mr. Downing.
"Not actually in, as far as I understand. I gather from the sergeantthat he interrupted him before----""I mean he must have been one of the boys in your house.""But what was he doing out at that hour?""He had broken out.""Impossible, I think. Oh yes, quite impossible! I went round thedormitories as usual at eleven o'clock last night, and all the boyswere asleep--all of them."Mr. Downing was not listening. He was in a state of suppressedexcitement and exultation which made it hard for him to attend to hiscolleague's slow utterances. He had a clue! Now that the search hadnarrowed itself down to Outwood's house, the rest was comparativelyeasy. Perhaps Sergeant Collard had actually recognised the boy. Orreflection he dismissed this as unlikely, for the sergeant wouldscarcely have kept a thing like that to himself; but he might verywell have seen more of him than he, Downing, had seen. It was onlywith an effort that he could keep himself from rushing to the sergeantthen and there, and leaving the house lunch to look after itself. Heresolved to go the moment that meal was at an end.
Sunday lunch at a public-school house is probably one of the longestfunctions in existence. It drags its slow length along like a languidsnake, but it finishes in time. In due course Mr. Downing, aftersitting still and eyeing with acute dislike everybody who asked for asecond helping, found himself at liberty.
Regardless of the claims of digestion, he rushed forth on the trail.
* * * * *Sergeant Collard lived with his wife and a family of unknowndimensions in the lodge at the school front gate. Dinner was just overwhen Mr. Downing arrived, as a blind man could have told.
The sergeant received his visitor with dignity, ejecting the family,who were torpid after roast beef and resented having to move, in orderto ensure privacy.
Having requested his host to smoke, which the latter was about to dounasked, Mr. Downing stated his case.
"Mr. Outwood," he said, "tells me that last night, sergeant, you saw aboy endeavouring to enter his house."The sergeant blew a cloud of smoke. "Oo-oo-oo, yer," he said; "I did,sir--spotted 'im, I did. Feeflee good at spottin', I am, sir. Dook ofConnaught, he used to say, ''Ere comes Sergeant Collard,' he used tosay, ''e's feeflee good at spottin'.'""What did you do?""Do? Oo-oo-oo! I shouts 'Oo-oo-oo yer, yer young monkey, what yerdoin' there?'""Yes?""But 'e was off in a flash, and I doubles after 'im prompt.""But you didn't catch him?""No, sir," admitted the sergeant reluctantly.
"Did you catch sight of his face, sergeant?""No, sir, 'e was doublin' away in the opposite direction.""Did you notice anything at all about his appearance?""'E was a long young chap, sir, with a pair of legs on him--feefleefast 'e run, sir. Oo-oo-oo, feeflee!""You noticed nothing else?""'E wasn't wearing no cap of any sort, sir.""Ah!""Bare-'eaded, sir," added the sergeant, rubbing the point in.
"It was undoubtedly the same boy, undoubtedly! I wish you could havecaught a glimpse of his face, sergeant.""So do I, sir.""You would not be able to recognise him again if you saw him, youthink?""Oo-oo-oo! Wouldn't go so far as to say that, sir, 'cos yer see, I'mfeeflee good at spottin', but it was a dark night."Mr. Downing rose to go.
"Well," he said, "the search is now considerably narrowed down,considerably! It is certain that the boy was one of the boys in Mr.
Outwood's house.""Young monkeys!" interjected the sergeant helpfully.
"Good-afternoon, sergeant.""Good-afternoon to you, sir.""Pray do not move, sergeant."The sergeant had not shown the slightest inclination of doing anythingof the kind.
"I will find my way out. Very hot to-day, is it not?""Feeflee warm, sir; weather's goin' to break--workin' up for thunder.""I hope not. The school plays the M.C.C. on Wednesday, and it would bea pity if rain were to spoil our first fixture with them. Goodafternoon."And Mr. Downing went out into the baking sunlight, while SergeantCollard, having requested Mrs. Collard to take the children out for awalk at once, and furthermore to give young Ernie a clip side of the'ead, if he persisted in making so much noise, put a handkerchief overhis face, rested his feet on the table, and slept the sleep of thejust.
For the Doctor Watsons of this world, as opposed to the SherlockHolmeses, success in the province of detective work must always be, toa very large extent, the result of luck. Sherlock Holmes can extract aclue from a wisp of straw or a flake of cigar-ash. But Doctor Watsonhas got to have it taken out for him, and dusted, and exhibitedclearly, with a label attached.
The average man is a Doctor Watson. We are wont to scoff in apatronising manner at that humble follower of the great investigator,but, as a matter of fact, we should have been just as dull ourselves.
We should not even have risen to the modest level of a Scotland YardBungler. We should simply have hung around, saying:
"My dear Holmes, how--?" and all the rest of it, just as thedowntrodden medico did.
It is not often that the ordinary person has any need to see what hecan do in the way of detection. He gets along very comfortably in thehumdrum round of life without having to measure footprints and smilequiet, tight-lipped smiles. But if ever the emergency does arise, hethinks naturally of Sherlock Holmes, and his methods.
Mr. Downing had read all the Holmes stories with great attention, andhad thought many times what an incompetent ass Doctor Watson was; but,now that he had started to handle his own first case, he was compelledto admit that there was a good deal to be said in extenuation ofWatson's inability to unravel tangles. It certainly was uncommonlyhard, he thought, as he paced the cricket field after leaving SergeantCollard, to detect anybody, unless you knew who had really done thecrime. As he brooded over the case in hand, his sympathy for Dr.
Watson increased with every minute, and he began to feel a certainresentment against Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It was all very well forSir Arthur to be so shrewd and infallible about tracing a mystery toits source, but he knew perfectly well who had done the thing beforehe started!
Now that he began really to look into this matter of the alarm belland the painting of Sammy, the conviction was creeping over him thatthe problem was more difficult than a casual observer might imagine.
He had got as far as finding that his quarry of the previous night wasa boy in Mr. Outwood's house, but how was he to get any farther? Thatwas the thing. There were, of course, only a limited number of boys inMr. Outwood's house as tall as the one he had pursued; but even ifthere had been only one other, it would have complicated matters. Ifyou go to a boy and say, "Either you or Jones were out of your houselast night at twelve o'clock," the boy does not reply, "Sir, I cannottell a lie--I was out of my house last night at twelve o'clock." Hesimply assumes the animated expression of a stuffed fish, and leavesthe next move to you. It is practically Stalemate.
All these things passed through Mr. Downing's mind as he walked up anddown the cricket field that afternoon.
What he wanted was a clue. But it is so hard for the novice to tellwhat is a clue and what isn't. Probably, if he only knew, there wereclues lying all over the place, shouting to him to pick them up.
What with the oppressive heat of the day and the fatigue of hardthinking, Mr. Downing was working up for a brain-storm, when Fate oncemore intervened, this time in the shape of Riglett, a junior member ofhis house.
Riglett slunk up in the shamefaced way peculiar to some boys, evenwhen they have done nothing wrong, and, having capped Mr. Downing withthe air of one who has been caught in the act of doing somethingparticularly shady, requested that he might be allowed to fetch hisbicycle from the shed.
"Your bicycle?" snapped Mr. Downing. Much thinking had made himirritable. "What do you want with your bicycle?"Riglett shuffled, stood first on his left foot, then on his right,blushed, and finally remarked, as if it were not so much a soundreason as a sort of feeble excuse for the low and blackguardly factthat he wanted his bicycle, that he had got leave for tea thatafternoon.
Then Mr. Downing remembered. Riglett had an aunt resident about threemiles from the school, whom he was accustomed to visit occasionally onSunday afternoons during the term.
He felt for his bunch of keys, and made his way to the shed, Riglettshambling behind at an interval of two yards.
Mr. Downing unlocked the door, and there on the floor was the Clue!
A clue that even Dr. Watson could not have overlooked.
Mr. Downing saw it, but did not immediately recognise it for what itwas. What he saw at first was not a Clue, but just a mess. He had atidy soul and abhorred messes. And this was a particularly messy mess.
The greater part of the flooring in the neighbourhood of the door wasa sea of red paint. The tin from which it had flowed was lying on itsside in the middle of the shed. The air was full of the pungent scent.
"Pah!" said Mr. Downing.
Then suddenly, beneath the disguise of the mess, he saw the clue. Afoot-mark! No less. A crimson foot-mark on the grey concrete!
Riglett, who had been waiting patiently two yards away, now coughedplaintively. The sound recalled Mr. Downing to mundane matters.
"Get your bicycle, Riglett," he said, "and be careful where you tread.
Somebody has upset a pot of paint on the floor."Riglett, walking delicately through dry places, extracted his bicyclefrom the rack, and presently departed to gladden the heart of hisaunt, leaving Mr. Downing, his brain fizzing with the enthusiasm ofthe detective, to lock the door and resume his perambulation of thecricket field.
Give Dr. Watson a fair start, and he is a demon at the game. Mr.
Downing's brain was now working with a rapidity and clearness which aprofessional sleuth might have envied.
Paint. Red paint. Obviously the same paint with which Sammy had beendecorated. A foot-mark. Whose foot-mark? Plainly that of the criminalwho had done the deed of decoration.
Yoicks!
There were two things, however, to be considered. Your carefuldetective must consider everything. In the first place, the paintmight have been upset by the ground-man. It was the ground-man'spaint. He had been giving a fresh coating to the wood-work in front ofthe pavilion scoring-box at the conclusion of yesterday's match. (Alabour of love which was the direct outcome of the enthusiasm for workwhich Adair had instilled into him.) In that case the foot-mark mightbe his.
_Note one_: Interview the ground-man on this point.
In the second place Adair might have upset the tin and trodden in itscontents when he went to get his bicycle in order to fetch the doctorfor the suffering MacPhee. This was the more probable of the twocontingencies, for it would have been dark in the shed when Adair wentinto it.
_Note two_ Interview Adair as to whether he found, on returning tothe house, that there was paint on his boots.
Things were moving.
* * * * *He resolved to take Adair first. He could get the ground-man's addressfrom him.
Passing by the trees under whose shade Mike and Psmith and Dunster hadwatched the match on the previous day, he came upon the Head of hishouse in a deck-chair reading a book. A summer Sunday afternoon is thetime for reading in deck-chairs.
"Oh, Adair," he said. "No, don't get up. I merely wished to ask you ifyou found any paint on your boots when you returned to the house lastnight?""Paint, sir?" Adair was plainly puzzled. His book had beeninteresting, and had driven the Sammy incident out of his head.
"I see somebody has spilt some paint on the floor of the bicycle shed.
You did not do that, I suppose, when you went to fetch your bicycle?""No, sir.""It is spilt all over the floor. I wondered whether you had happenedto tread in it. But you say you found no paint on your boots thismorning?""No, sir, my bicycle is always quite near the door of the shed. Ididn't go into the shed at all.""I see. Quite so. Thank you, Adair. Oh, by the way, Adair, where doesMarkby live?""I forget the name of his cottage, sir, but I could show you in asecond. It's one of those cottages just past the school gates, on theright as you turn out into the road. There are three in a row. His isthe first you come to. There's a barn just before you get to them.""Thank you. I shall be able to find them. I should like to speak toMarkby for a moment on a small matter."A sharp walk took him to the cottages Adair had mentioned. Herapped at the door of the first, and the ground-man came out inhis shirt-sleeves, blinking as if he had just woke up, as wasindeed the case.
"Oh, Markby!""Sir?""You remember that you were painting the scoring-box in the pavilionlast night after the match?""Yes, sir. It wanted a lick of paint bad. The young gentlemen willscramble about and get through the window. Makes it look shabby, sir.
So I thought I'd better give it a coating so as to look ship-shapewhen the Marylebone come down.""Just so. An excellent idea. Tell me, Markby, what did you do with thepot of paint when you had finished?""Put it in the bicycle shed, sir.""On the floor?""On the floor, sir? No. On the shelf at the far end, with the can ofwhitening what I use for marking out the wickets, sir.""Of course, yes. Quite so. Just as I thought.""Do you want it, sir?""No, thank you, Markby, no, thank you. The fact is, somebody who hadno business to do so has moved the pot of paint from the shelf to thefloor, with the result that it has been kicked over, and spilt. Youhad better get some more to-morrow. Thank you, Markby. That is all Iwished to know."Mr. Downing walked back to the school thoroughly excited. He was hoton the scent now. The only other possible theories had been tested andsuccessfully exploded. The thing had become simple to a degree. All hehad to do was to go to Mr. Outwood's house--the idea of searching afellow-master's house did not appear to him at all a delicate task;somehow one grew unconsciously to feel that Mr. Outwood did not reallyexist as a man capable of resenting liberties--find the paint-splashedboot, ascertain its owner, and denounce him to the headmaster.
Picture, Blue Fire and "God Save the King" by the full strength of thecompany. There could be no doubt that a paint-splashed boot must be inMr. Outwood's house somewhere. A boy cannot tread in a pool of paintwithout showing some signs of having done so. It was Sunday, too, sothat the boot would not yet have been cleaned. Yoicks! Also Tally-ho!
This really was beginning to be something like business.
Regardless of the heat, the sleuth-hound hurried across to Outwood'sas fast as he could walk.
The only two members of the house not out in the grounds when hearrived were Mike and Psmith. They were standing on the gravel drivein front of the boys' entrance. Mike had a deck-chair in one hand anda book in the other. Psmith--for even the greatest minds willsometimes unbend--was playing diabolo. That is to say, he was tryingwithout success to raise the spool from the ground.
"There's a kid in France," said Mike disparagingly, as the bobbinrolled off the string for the fourth time, "who can do it threethousand seven hundred and something times."Psmith smoothed a crease out of his waistcoat and tried again. He hadjust succeeded in getting the thing to spin when Mr. Downing arrived.
The sound of his footsteps disturbed Psmith and brought the effort tonothing.
"Enough of this spoolery," said he, flinging the sticks through theopen window of the senior day-room. "I was an ass ever to try it. Thephilosophical mind needs complete repose in its hours of leisure.
Hullo!"He stared after the sleuth-hound, who had just entered the house.
"What the dickens," said Mike, "does he mean by barging in as if he'dbought the place?""Comrade Downing looks pleased with himself. What brings him round inthis direction, I wonder! Still, no matter. The few articles which hemay sneak from our study are of inconsiderable value. He is welcome tothem. Do you feel inclined to wait awhile till I have fetched a chairand book?""I'll be going on. I shall be under the trees at the far end of theground.""'Tis well. I will be with you in about two ticks."Mike walked on towards the field, and Psmith, strolling upstairs tofetch his novel, found Mr. Downing standing in the passage with theair of one who has lost his bearings.
"A warm afternoon, sir," murmured Psmith courteously, as he passed.
"Er--Smith!""Sir?""I--er--wish to go round the dormitories."It was Psmith's guiding rule in life never to be surprised atanything, so he merely inclined his head gracefully, and said nothing.
"I should be glad if you would fetch the keys and show me where therooms are.""With acute pleasure, sir," said Psmith. "Or shall I fetch Mr.
Outwood, sir?""Do as I tell you, Smith," snapped Mr. Downing.
Psmith said no more, but went down to the matron's room. The matronbeing out, he abstracted the bunch of keys from her table and rejoinedthe master.
"Shall I lead the way, sir?" he asked.
Mr. Downing nodded.
"Here, sir," said Psmith, opening a door, "we have Barnes' dormitory.
An airy room, constructed on the soundest hygienic principles. Eachboy, I understand, has quite a considerable number of cubic feet ofair all to himself. It is Mr. Outwood's boast that no boy has everasked for a cubic foot of air in vain. He argues justly----"He broke off abruptly and began to watch the other's manoeuvres insilence. Mr. Downing was peering rapidly beneath each bed in turn.
"Are you looking for Barnes, sir?" inquired Psmith politely. "I thinkhe's out in the field."Mr. Downing rose, having examined the last bed, crimson in the facewith the exercise.
"Show me the next dormitory, Smith," he said, panting slightly.
"This," said Psmith, opening the next door and sinking his voice to anawed whisper, "is where _I_ sleep!"Mr. Downing glanced swiftly beneath the three beds. "Excuse me, sir,"said Psmith, "but are we chasing anything?""Be good enough, Smith," said Mr. Downing with asperity, "to keep yourremarks to yourself.""I was only wondering, sir. Shall I show you the next in order?""Certainly."They moved on up the passage.
Drawing blank at the last dormitory, Mr. Downing paused, baffled.
Psmith waited patiently by. An idea struck the master.
"The studies, Smith," he cried.
"Aha!" said Psmith. "I beg your pardon, sir. The observation escapedme unawares. The frenzy of the chase is beginning to enter into myblood. Here we have----"Mr. Downing stopped short.
"Is this impertinence studied, Smith?""Ferguson's study, sir? No, sir. That's further down the passage. Thisis Barnes'."Mr. Downing looked at him closely. Psmith's face was wooden in itsgravity. The master snorted suspiciously, then moved on.
"Whose is this?" he asked, rapping a door.
"This, sir, is mine and Jackson's.""What! Have you a study? You are low down in the school for it.""I think, sir, that Mr. Outwood gave it us rather as a testimonial toour general worth than to our proficiency in school-work."Mr. Downing raked the room with a keen eye. The absence of bars fromthe window attracted his attention.
"Have you no bars to your windows here, such as there are in myhouse?""There appears to be no bar, sir," said Psmith, putting up hiseyeglass.
Mr Downing was leaning out of the window.
"A lovely view, is it not, sir?" said Psmith. "The trees, the field,the distant hills----"Mr. Downing suddenly started. His eye had been caught by the water-pipeat the side of the window. The boy whom Sergeant Collard had seenclimbing the pipe must have been making for this study.
He spun round and met Psmith's blandly inquiring gaze. He looked atPsmith carefully for a moment. No. The boy he had chased last nighthad not been Psmith. That exquisite's figure and general appearancewere unmistakable, even in the dusk.
"Whom did you say you shared this study with, Smith?""Jackson, sir. The cricketer.""Never mind about his cricket, Smith," said Mr. Downing withirritation.
"No, sir.""He is the only other occupant of the room?""Yes, sir.""Nobody else comes into it?""If they do, they go out extremely quickly, sir.""Ah! Thank you, Smith.""Not at all, sir."Mr. Downing pondered. Jackson! The boy bore him a grudge. The boy wasprecisely the sort of boy to revenge himself by painting the dogSammy. And, gadzooks! The boy whom he had pursued last night had beenjust about Jackson's size and build!
Mr. Downing was as firmly convinced at that moment that Mike's hadbeen the hand to wield the paint-brush as he had ever been of anythingin his life.
"Smith!" he said excitedly.
"On the spot, sir," said Psmith affably.
"Where are Jackson's boots?"There are moments when the giddy excitement of being right on thetrail causes the amateur (or Watsonian) detective to be incautious.
Such a moment came to Mr. Downing then. If he had been wise, he wouldhave achieved his object, the getting a glimpse of Mike's boots, by adevious and snaky route. As it was, he rushed straight on.
"His boots, sir? He has them on. I noticed them as he went out justnow.""Where is the pair he wore yesterday?""Where are the boots of yester-year?" murmured Psmith to himself. "Ishould say at a venture, sir, that they would be in the basketdownstairs. Edmund, our genial knife-and-boot boy, collects them, Ibelieve, at early dawn.""Would they have been cleaned yet?""If I know Edmund, sir--no.""Smith," said Mr. Downing, trembling with excitement, "go and bringthat basket to me here."Psmith's brain was working rapidly as he went downstairs. What exactlywas at the back of the sleuth's mind, prompting these manoeuvres, hedid not know. But that there was something, and that that somethingwas directed in a hostile manner against Mike, probably in connectionwith last night's wild happenings, he was certain. Psmith had noticed,on leaving his bed at the sound of the alarm bell, that he andJellicoe were alone in the room. That might mean that Mike had goneout through the door when the bell sounded, or it might mean that hehad been out all the time. It began to look as if the latter solutionwere the correct one.
* * * * *He staggered back with the basket, painfully conscious the while thatit was creasing his waistcoat, and dumped is down on the study floor.
Mr. Downing stooped eagerly over it. Psmith leaned against the wall,and straightened out the damaged garment.
"We have here, sir," he said, "a fair selection of our variousbootings."Mr. Downing looked up.
"You dropped none of the boots on your way up, Smith?""Not one, sir. It was a fine performance."Mr. Downing uttered a grunt of satisfaction, and bent once more to histask. Boots flew about the room. Mr. Downing knelt on the floor besidethe basket, and dug like a terrier at a rat-hole.
At last he made a dive, and, with an exclamation of triumph, rose tohis feet. In his hand he held a boot.
"Put those back again, Smith," he said.
The ex-Etonian, wearing an expression such as a martyr might have wornon being told off for the stake, began to pick up the scatteredfootgear, whistling softly the tune of "I do all the dirty work," ashe did so.
"That's the lot, sir," he said, rising.
"Ah. Now come across with me to the headmaster's house. Leave thebasket here. You can carry it back when you return.""Shall I put back that boot, sir?""Certainly not. I shall take this with me, of course.""Shall I carry it, sir?"Mr. Downing reflected.
"Yes, Smith," he said. "I think it would be best."It occurred to him that the spectacle of a housemaster wanderingabroad on the public highway, carrying a dirty boot, might be a trifleundignified. You never knew whom you might meet on Sunday afternoon.
Psmith took the boot, and doing so, understood what before had puzzledhim.
Across the toe of the boot was a broad splash of red paint.
He knew nothing, of course, of the upset tin in the bicycle shed;but when a housemaster's dog has been painted red in the night, andwhen, on the following day, the housemaster goes about in search of apaint-splashed boot, one puts two and two together. Psmith looked atthe name inside the boot. It was "Brown, boot-maker, Bridgnorth."Bridgnorth was only a few miles from his own home and Mike's.
Undoubtedly it was Mike's boot.
"Can you tell me whose boot that is?" asked Mr. Downing.
Psmith looked at it again.
"No, sir. I can't say the little chap's familiar to me.""Come with me, then."Mr. Downing left the room. After a moment Psmith followed him.
The headmaster was in his garden. Thither Mr. Downing made his way,the boot-bearing Psmith in close attendance.
The Head listened to the amateur detective's statement with interest.
"Indeed?" he said, when Mr. Downing had finished.
"Indeed? Dear me! It certainly seems--It is a curiously well-connectedthread of evidence. You are certain that there was red paint on thisboot you discovered in Mr. Outwood's house?""I have it with me. I brought it on purpose to show to you. Smith!""Sir?""You have the boot?""Ah," said the headmaster, putting on a pair of pince-nez, "now let melook at--This, you say, is the--? Just so. Just so. Just.... But, er,Mr. Downing, it may be that I have not examined this boot withsufficient care, but--Can _you_ point out to me exactly wherethis paint is that you speak of?"Mr. Downing stood staring at the boot with a wild, fixed stare. Of anysuspicion of paint, red or otherwise, it was absolutely and entirelyinnocent.
The boot became the centre of attraction, the cynosure of all eyes.
Mr. Downing fixed it with the piercing stare of one who feels that hisbrain is tottering. The headmaster looked at it with a mildly puzzledexpression. Psmith, putting up his eyeglass, gazed at it with a sortof affectionate interest, as if he were waiting for it to do a trickof some kind.
Mr. Downing was the first to break the silence.
"There was paint on this boot," he said vehemently. "I tell you therewas a splash of red paint across the toe. Smith will bear me out inthis. Smith, you saw the paint on this boot?""Paint, sir!""What! Do you mean to tell me that you did _not_ see it?""No, sir. There was no paint on this boot.""This is foolery. I saw it with my own eyes. It was a broad splashright across the toe."The headmaster interposed.
"You must have made a mistake, Mr. Downing. There is certainly notrace of paint on this boot. These momentary optical delusions are,I fancy, not uncommon. Any doctor will tell you----""I had an aunt, sir," said Psmith chattily, "who was remarkablysubject----""It is absurd. I cannot have been mistaken," said Mr. Downing. "I ampositively certain the toe of this boot was red when I found it.""It is undoubtedly black now, Mr. Downing.""A sort of chameleon boot," murmured Psmith.
The goaded housemaster turned on him.
"What did you say, Smith?""Did I speak, sir?" said Psmith, with the start of one coming suddenlyout of a trance.
Mr. Downing looked searchingly at him.
"You had better be careful, Smith.""Yes, sir.""I strongly suspect you of having something to do with this.""Really, Mr. Downing," said the headmaster, "that is surelyimprobable. Smith could scarcely have cleaned the boot on his way tomy house. On one occasion I inadvertently spilt some paint on a shoeof my own. I can assure you that it does not brush off. It needs avery systematic cleaning before all traces are removed.""Exactly, sir," said Psmith. "My theory, if I may----?""Certainly, Smith."Psmith bowed courteously and proceeded.
"My theory, sir, is that Mr. Downing was deceived by the light andshade effects on the toe of the boot. The afternoon sun, streaming inthrough the window, must have shone on the boot in such a manner as togive it a momentary and fictitious aspect of redness. If Mr. Downingrecollects, he did not look long at the boot. The picture on theretina of the eye, consequently, had not time to fade. I rememberthinking myself, at the moment, that the boot appeared to have acertain reddish tint. The mistake----""Bah!" said Mr. Downing shortly.
"Well, really," said the headmaster, "it seems to me that that is theonly explanation that will square with the facts. A boot that isreally smeared with red paint does not become black of itself in thecourse of a few minutes.""You are very right, sir," said Psmith with benevolent approval. "MayI go now, sir? I am in the middle of a singularly impressive passageof Cicero's speech De Senectute.""I am sorry that you should leave your preparation till Sunday, Smith.
It is a habit of which I altogether disapprove.""I am reading it, sir," said Psmith, with simple dignity, "forpleasure. Shall I take the boot with me, sir?""If Mr. Downing does not want it?"The housemaster passed the fraudulent piece of evidence to Psmithwithout a word, and the latter, having included both masters in akindly smile, left the garden.
Pedestrians who had the good fortune to be passing along the roadbetween the housemaster's house and Mr. Outwood's at that moment sawwhat, if they had but known it, was a most unusual sight, thespectacle of Psmith running. Psmith's usual mode of progression was adignified walk. He believed in the contemplative style rather than thehustling.
On this occasion, however, reckless of possible injuries to the creaseof his trousers, he raced down the road, and turning in at Outwood'sgate, bounded upstairs like a highly trained professional athlete.
On arriving at the study, his first act was to remove a boot from thetop of the pile in the basket, place it in the small cupboard underthe bookshelf, and lock the cupboard. Then he flung himself into achair and panted.
"Brain," he said to himself approvingly, "is what one chiefly needs inmatters of this kind. Without brain, where are we? In the soup, everytime. The next development will be when Comrade Downing thinks itover, and is struck with the brilliant idea that it's just possiblethat the boot he gave me to carry and the boot I did carry were notone boot but two boots. Meanwhile----"He dragged up another chair for his feet and picked up his novel.
He had not been reading long when there was a footstep in the passage,and Mr. Downing appeared.
The possibility, in fact the probability, of Psmith having substitutedanother boot for the one with the incriminating splash of paint on ithad occurred to him almost immediately on leaving the headmaster'sgarden. Psmith and Mike, he reflected, were friends. Psmith's impulsewould be to do all that lay in his power to shield Mike. Feelingaggrieved with himself that he had not thought of this before, he,too, hurried over to Outwood's.
Mr. Downing was brisk and peremptory.
"I wish to look at these boots again," he said. Psmith, with a sigh,laid down his novel, and rose to assist him.
"Sit down, Smith," said the housemaster. "I can manage without yourhelp."Psmith sat down again, carefully tucking up the knees of his trousers,and watched him with silent interest through his eyeglass.
The scrutiny irritated Mr. Downing.
"Put that thing away, Smith," he said.
"That thing, sir?""Yes, that ridiculous glass. Put it away.""Why, sir?""Why! Because I tell you to do so.""I guessed that that was the reason, sir," sighed Psmith replacing theeyeglass in his waistcoat pocket. He rested his elbows on his knees,and his chin on his hands, and resumed his contemplative inspection ofthe boot-expert, who, after fidgeting for a few moments, lodgedanother complaint.
"Don't sit there staring at me, Smith.""I was interested in what you were doing, sir.""Never mind. Don't stare at me in that idiotic way.""May I read, sir?" asked Psmith, patiently.
"Yes, read if you like.""Thank you, sir."Psmith took up his book again, and Mr. Downing, now thoroughlyirritated, pursued his investigations in the boot-basket.
He went through it twice, but each time without success. After thesecond search, he stood up, and looked wildly round the room. He wasas certain as he could be of anything that the missing piece ofevidence was somewhere in the study. It was no use asking Psmithpoint-blank where it was, for Psmith's ability to parry dangerousquestions with evasive answers was quite out of the common.
His eye roamed about the room. There was very little cover there, evenfor so small a fugitive as a number nine boot. The floor could beacquitted, on sight, of harbouring the quarry.
Then he caught sight of the cupboard, and something seemed to tell himthat there was the place to look.
"Smith!" he said.
Psmith had been reading placidly all the while.
"Yes, sir?""What is in this cupboard?""That cupboard, sir?""Yes. This cupboard." Mr. Downing rapped the door irritably.
"Just a few odd trifles, sir. We do not often use it. A ball ofstring, perhaps. Possibly an old note-book. Nothing of value orinterest.""Open it.""I think you will find that it is locked, sir.""Unlock it.""But where is the key, sir?""Have you not got the key?""If the key is not in the lock, sir, you may depend upon it that itwill take a long search to find it.""Where did you see it last?""It was in the lock yesterday morning. Jackson might have taken it.""Where is Jackson?""Out in the field somewhere, sir."Mr. Downing thought for a moment.
"I don't believe a word of it," he said shortly. "I have my reasonsfor thinking that you are deliberately keeping the contents of thatcupboard from me. I shall break open the door."Psmith got up.
"I'm afraid you mustn't do that, sir."Mr. Downing stared, amazed.
"Are you aware whom you are talking to, Smith?" he inquired acidly.
"Yes, sir. And I know it's not Mr. Outwood, to whom that cupboardhappens to belong. If you wish to break it open, you must get hispermission. He is the sole lessee and proprietor of that cupboard. Iam only the acting manager."Mr. Downing paused. He also reflected. Mr. Outwood in the general ruledid not count much in the scheme of things, but possibly there werelimits to the treating of him as if he did not exist. To enter hishouse without his permission and search it to a certain extent was allvery well. But when it came to breaking up his furniture, perhaps----!
On the other hand, there was the maddening thought that if he leftthe study in search of Mr. Outwood, in order to obtain his sanctionfor the house-breaking work which he proposed to carry through,Smith would be alone in the room. And he knew that, if Smith wereleft alone in the room, he would instantly remove the boot to someother hiding-place. He thoroughly disbelieved the story of the lostkey. He was perfectly convinced that the missing boot was in thecupboard.
He stood chewing these thoughts for awhile, Psmith in the meantimestanding in a graceful attitude in front of the cupboard, staring intovacancy.
Then he was seized with a happy idea. Why should he leave the room atall? If he sent Smith, then he himself could wait and make certainthat the cupboard was not tampered with.
"Smith," he said, "go and find Mr. Outwood, and ask him to be goodenough to come here for a moment."