He turned to Mr. Outwood.
"We should, of course, sir, always be glad to see Spiller in our study.
He would always find a cheery welcome waiting there for him. There is no
formality between ourselves and Spiller."
"Quite so. An excellent arrangement, Smith. I like this spirit of
comradeship in my house. Then you will be with us on Saturday?"
"On Saturday, sir."
"All this sort of thing, Spiller," said Psmith, as they closed the door,
"is very, very trying for a man of culture. Look us up in our study one
of these afternoons."
5
GUERRILLA WARFARE
"There are few pleasures," said Psmith, as he resumed his favorite
position against the mantelpiece and surveyed the commandeered study
with the pride of a householder, "keener to the reflective mind than
sitting under one's own rooftree. This place would have been wasted on
Spiller; he would not have appreciated it properly."
Mike was finishing his tea. "You're a jolly useful chap to have by you
in a crisis, Smith," he said with approval. "We ought to have known each
other before."
"The loss was mine," said Psmith courteously. "We will now, with your
permission, face the future for a while. I suppose you realize that we
are now to a certain extent up against it. Spiller's hot Spanish blood
is not going to sit tight and do nothing under a blow like this."
"What can he do? Outwood's given us the study."
"What would you have done if somebody had bagged your study?"
"Made it jolly hot for them!"
"So will Comrade Spiller. I take it that he will collect a gang and make
an offensive movement against us directly he can. To all appearances we
are in a fairly tight place. It all depends on how big Comrade Spiller's
gang will be. I don't like rows, but I'm prepared to take on a
reasonable number of assailants in defense of the home."
Mike intimated that he was with him on the point. "The difficulty is,
though," he said, "about when we leave this room. I mean, we're all
right while we stick here, but we can't stay all night."
"That's just what I was about to point out when you put it with such
admirable clearness. Here we are in a stronghold; they can only get at
us through the door, and we can lock that."
"And jam a chair against it."
"_And_, as you rightly remark, jam a chair against it. But what of the
nightfall? What of the time when we retire to our dormitory?"
"Or dormitories. I say, if we're in separate rooms we shall be in the
cart."
Psmith eyed Mike with approval. "He thinks of everything! You're the
man, Comrade Jackson, to conduct an affair of this kind - such foresight!
such resource! We must see to this at once; if they put us in different
rooms we're done - we shall be destroyed singly in the watches of
the night."
"We'd better nip down to the matron right off."
"Not the matron - Comrade Outwood is the man. We are as sons to him;
there is nothing he can deny us. I'm afraid we are quite spoiling his
afternoon by these interruptions, but we must rout him out once more."
As they got up, the door handle rattled again, and this time there
followed a knocking.
"This must be an emissary of Comrade Spiller's," said Psmith. "Let us
parley with the man."
Mike unlocked the door. A light-haired youth with a cheerful, rather
vacant face and a receding chin strolled into the room, and stood
giggling with his hands in his pockets.
"I just came up to have a look at you," he explained.
"If you move a little to the left," said Psmith, "you will catch the
light-and-shade effects on Jackson's face better."
The newcomer giggled with renewed vigor. "Are you the chap with the
eyeglass who jaws all the time?"
"I _do_ wear an eyeglass," said Psmith; "as to the rest of the
description - "
"My name's Jellicoe."
"Mine is Psmith - P-s-m-i-t-h - one of the Shropshire Psmiths. The object
on the skyline is Comrade Jackson."
"Old Spiller," giggled Jellicoe, "is cursing you like anything
downstairs. You _are_ chaps! Do you mean to say you simply bagged his
study? He's making no end of a row about it."
"Spiller's fiery nature is a byword," said Psmith.
"What's he going to do?" asked Mike, in his practical way.
"He's going to get the chaps to turn you out."
"As I suspected," sighed Psmith, as one mourning over the frailty of
human nature. "About how many horny-handed assistants should you say
that he would be likely to bring? Will you, for instance, join the
glad throng?"
"Me? No fear! I think Spiller's an ass."
"There's nothing like a common thought for binding people together. _I_
think Spiller's an ass."
"How many _will_ there be, then?" asked Mike.
"He might get about half a dozen, not more, because most of the chaps
don't see why they should sweat themselves just because Spiller's study
has been bagged."
"Sturdy common sense," said Psmith approvingly, "seems to be the chief
virtue of the Sedleigh character."
"We shall be able to tackle a crowd like that," said Mike. "The only
thing is we must get into the same dormitory."
"This is where Comrade Jellicoe's knowledge of the local geography will
come in useful. Do you happen to know of any snug little room, with,
say, about four beds in it? How many dormitories are there?"
"Five - there's one with three beds in it, only it belongs to three
chaps."
"I believe in the equal distribution of property. We will go to Comrade
Outwood and stake out another claim."
Mr. Outwood received them even more beamingly than before. "Yes, Smith?"
he said.
"We must apologize for disturbing you, sir - "
"Not at all, Smith, not at all! I like the boys in my house to come to
me when they wish for my advice or help."
"We were wondering, sir, if you would have any objection to Jackson,
Jellicoe and myself sharing the dormitory with the three beds in it. A
very warm friendship ..." explained Psmith, patting the gurgling
Jellicoe kindly on the shoulder, "has sprung up between Jackson,
Jellicoe and myself."
"You make friends easily, Smith. I like to see it - I like to see it."
"And we can have the room, sir?"
"Certainly - certainly! Tell the matron as you go down."
"And now," said Psmith, as they returned to the study, "we may say that
we are in a fairly winning position. A vote of thanks to Comrade
Jellicoe for his valuable assistance."
"You _are_ a chap!" said Jellicoe.
The handle began to revolve again.
"That door," said Psmith, "is getting a perfect incubus! It cuts into
one's leisure cruelly."
This time it was a small boy. "They told me to come up and tell you to
come down," he said.
Psmith looked at him searchingly through his eyeglass.
"Who?"
"The senior day room chaps."
"Spiller?"
"Spiller and Robinson and Stone, and some other chaps."
"They want us to speak to them?"
"They told me to come up and tell you to come down."
"Go and give Comrade Spiller our compliments and say that we can't come
down, but shall be delighted to see him up here. Things," he said, as
the messenger departed, "are beginning to move. Better leave the door
open, I think; it will save trouble. Ah, come in, Comrade Spiller, what
can we do for you?"
Spiller advanced into the study; the others waited outside, crowding in
the doorway.
"Look here," said Spiller, "are you going to clear out of here or not?"
"After Mr. Outwood's kindly thought in giving us the room? You suggest a
black and ungrateful action, Comrade Spiller."
"You'll get it hot, if you don't."
"We'll risk it," said Mike.
Jellicoe giggled in the background; the drama in the atmosphere appealed
to him. His was a simple and appreciative mind.
"Come on, you chaps," cried Spiller suddenly.
There was an inward rush on the enemy's part, but Mike had been
watching. He grabbed Spiller by the shoulders and ran him back against
the advancing crowd. For a moment the doorway was blocked, then the
weight and impetus of Mike and Spiller prevailed, the enemy gave back,
and Mike, stepping into the room again, slammed the door and locked it.
"A neat piece of work," said Psmith approvingly, adjusting his tie at
the looking glass. "The preliminaries may now be considered over, the
first shot has been fired. The dogs of war are now loose."
A heavy body crashed against the door.
"They'll have it down," said Jellicoe.
"We must act, Comrade Jackson! Might I trouble you just to turn that key
quietly, and the handle, and then to stand by for the next attack."
There was a scrambling of feet in the passage outside, and then a
repetition of the onslaught on the door. This time, however, the door,
instead of resisting, swung open, and the human battering ram staggered
through into the study. Mike, turning after relocking the door, was just
in time to see Psmith, with a display of energy of which one would not
have believed him capable, grip the invader scientifically by an arm
and a leg.
Mike jumped to help, but it was needless; the captive was already on the
windowsill. As Mike arrived, Psmith dropped him onto the
flowerbed below.
Psmith closed the window gently and turned to Jellicoe. "Who was our
guest?" he asked, dusting the knees of his trousers where they had
pressed against the wall.
"Robinson. I say, you _are_ a chap!"
"Robinson, was it? Well, we are always glad to see Comrade Robinson,
always. I wonder if anybody else is thinking of calling?"
Apparently frontal attack had been abandoned. Whisperings could be heard
in the corridor.
Somebody hammered on the door.
"Yes?" called Psmith patiently.
"You'd better come out, you know; you'll only get it hotter if you
don't."
"Leave us, Spiller; we would be alone."
A bell rang in the distance.
"Tea," said Jellicoe; "we shall have to go now."
"They won't do anything till after tea, I shouldn't think," said Mike.
"There's no harm in going out."
The passage was empty when they opened the door; the call to food was
evidently a thing not to be treated lightly by the enemy.
In the dining room the beleaguered garrison were the object of general
attention. Everybody turned to look at them as they came in. It was
plain that the study episode had been a topic of conversation. Spiller's
face was crimson, and Robinson's coat sleeve still bore traces of
garden mold.
Mike felt rather conscious of the eyes, but Psmith was in his element.
His demeanor throughout the meal was that of some whimsical monarch
condescending for a freak to revel with his humble subjects.
Toward the end of the meal Psmith scribbled a note and passed it to
Mike. It read: "Directly this is over, nip upstairs as quickly as
you can."
Mike followed the advice; they were first out of the room. When they had
been in the study a few moments, Jellicoe knocked at the door. "Lucky
you two cut away so quick," he said. "They were going to try and get you
into the senior day room and scrag you there."
"This," said Psmith, leaning against the mantelpiece, "is exciting, but
it can't go on. We have got for our sins to be in this place for a whole
term, and if we are going to do the Hunted Fawn business all the time,
life in the true sense of the word will become an impossibility. My
nerves are so delicately attuned that the strain would simply reduce
them to hash. We are not prepared to carry on a long campaign - the thing
must be settled at once."
"Shall we go down to the senior day room, and have it out?" said Mike.
"No, we will play the fixture on our own ground. I think we may take it
as tolerably certain that Comrade Spiller and his hired ruffians will
try to corner us in the dormitory tonight. Well, of course, we could
fake up some sort of barricade for the door, but then we should have all
the trouble over again tomorrow and the day after that. Personally I
don't propose to be chivied about indefinitely like this, so I propose
that we let them come into the dormitory, and see what happens. Is this
meeting with me?"
"I think that's sound," said Mike. "We needn't drag Jellicoe into it."
"As a matter of fact - if you don't mind ..." began that man of peace.
"Quite right," said Psmith; "this is not Comrade Jellicoe's scene at
all; he has got to spend the term in the senior day room, whereas we
have our little wooden _châlet_ to retire to in times of stress. Comrade
Jellicoe must stand out of the game altogether. We shall be glad of his
moral support, but otherwise, _ne pas_. And now, as there won't be
anything doing till bedtime, I think I'll collar this table and write
home and tell my people that all is well with their Rupert."
6
UNPLEASANTNESS IN THE SMALL HOURS
Jellicoe, that human encyclopedia, consulted on the probable movements
of the enemy, deposed that Spiller, retiring at ten, would make for
Dormitory One in the same passage, where Robinson also had a bed. The
rest of the opposing forces were distributed among other and more
distant rooms. It was probable, therefore, that Dormitory One would be
the rendezvous. As to the time when an attack might be expected, it was
unlikely that it would occur before half past eleven. Mr. Outwood went
the round of the dormitories at eleven.
"And touching," said Psmith, "the matter of noise, must this business be
conducted in a subdued and _sotto voce_ manner, or may we let ourselves
go a bit here and there?"
"I shouldn't think old Outwood's likely to hear you - he sleeps miles
away on the other side of the house. He never hears anything. We often
rag half the night and nothing happens."
"This appears to be a thoroughly nice, well-conducted establishment.
What would my mother say if she could see her Rupert in the midst of
these reckless youths!"
"All the better," said Mike; "we don't want anybody butting in and
stopping the show before it's half started."
"Comrade Jackson's berserk blood is up - I can hear it sizzling. I quite
agree these things are all very disturbing and painful, but it's as well
to do them thoroughly when one's once in for them. Is there nobody else
who might interfere with our gambols?"
"Barnes might," said Jellicoe, "only he won't."
"Who is Barnes?"
"Head of the house - a rotter. He's in a funk of Stone and Robinson; they
rag him; he'll simply sit tight."
"Then I think," said Psmith placidly, "we may look forward to a very
pleasant evening. Shall we be moving?"
Mr. Outwood paid his visit at eleven, as predicted by Jellicoe, beaming
vaguely into the darkness over a torch, and disappeared again,
closing the door.
"How about that door?" said Mike. "Shall we leave it open for them?"
"Not so, but far otherwise. If it's shut we shall hear them at it when
they come. Subject to your approval, Comrade Jackson, I have evolved the
following plan of action. I always ask myself on these occasions, 'What
would Napoleon have done?' I think Napoleon would have sat in a chair by
his washhand stand, which is close to the door; he would have posted you
by your washhand stand, and he would have instructed Comrade Jellicoe,
directly he heard the door handle turned, to give his celebrated
imitation of a dormitory breathing heavily in its sleep. He
would then - "
"I tell you what," said Mike, "How about tying a string at the top of
the steps?"
"Yes, Napoleon would have done that, too. Hats off to Comrade Jackson,
the man with the big brain!"
The floor of the dormitory was below the level of the door. There were
three steps leading down to it. Psmith switched on his torch and they
examined the ground. The leg of a wardrobe and the leg of Jellicoe's bed
made it possible for the string to be fastened in a satisfactory manner
across the lower step. Psmith surveyed the result with approval.
"Dashed neat!" he said. "Practically the sunken road which dished the
Cuirassiers at Waterloo. I seem to see Comrade Spiller coming one of the
finest purlers in the world's history."
"If they've got a torch - "
"They won't have. If they have, stand by and grab it at once; then
they'll charge forward and all will be well. If they have no light, fire
into the brown with a jug of water. Lest we forget, I'll collar Comrade
Jellicoe's jug now and keep it handy. A couple of sheets would also not
be amiss - we will enmesh the enemy!"
"Right ho!" said Mike.
"These humane preparations being concluded," said Psmith, "we will
retire to our posts and wait. Comrade Jellicoe, don't forget to breathe
like an asthmatic sheep when you hear the door opened; they may wait at
the top of the steps, listening."
"You _are_ a lad!" said Jellicoe.
Waiting in the dark for something to happen is always a trying
experience, especially if, as on this occasion, silence is essential.
Mike was tired after his journey, and he had begun to doze when he was
jerked back to wakefulness by the stealthy turning of the door handle;
the faintest rustle from Psmith's direction followed, and a slight
giggle, succeeded by a series of deep breaths, showed that Jellicoe,
too, had heard the noise.
There was a creaking sound.
It was pitch-dark in the dormitory, but Mike could follow the invaders'
movements as clearly as if it had been broad daylight. They had opened
the door and were listening. Jellicoe's breathing grew more asthmatic;
he was flinging himself into his part with the wholeheartedness of the
true artist.
The creak was followed by a sound of whispering, then another creak. The
enemy had advanced to the top step.... Another creak.... The vanguard
had reached the second step.... In another moment -
CRASH!
And at that point the proceedings may be said to have formally opened.
A struggling mass bumped against Mike's shins as he rose from his chair;
he emptied his jug onto this mass, and a yell of anguish showed that the
contents had got to the right address.
Then a hand grabbed his ankle and he went down, a million sparks dancing
before his eyes as a fist, flying out at a venture, caught him on
the nose.
Mike had not been well disposed toward the invaders before, but now he
ran amok, hitting out right and left at random. His right missed, but
his left went home hard on some portion of somebody's anatomy. A kick
freed his ankle and he staggered to his feet. At the same moment a
sudden increase in the general volume of noise spoke eloquently of good
work that was being put in by Psmith.
Even at that crisis, Mike could not help feeling that if a row of this
caliber did not draw Mr. Outwood from his bed, he must be an unusual
kind of housemaster.
He plunged forward again with outstretched arms, and stumbled and fell
over one of the on-the-floor section of the opposing force. They seized
each other earnestly and rolled across the room till Mike, contriving to
secure his adversary's head, bumped it on the floor with such abandon
that, with a muffled yell, the other let go, and for the second time he
rose. As he did so he was conscious of a curious thudding sound that
made itself heard through the other assorted noises of the battle.
All this time the fight had gone on in the blackest darkness, but now a
light shone on the proceedings. Interested occupants of other
dormitories, roused from their slumbers, had come to observe the sport.
They had switched on the light and were crowding in the doorway.
By the light of this Mike got a swift view of the theater of war. The
enemy appeared to number five. The warrior whose head Mike had bumped on
the floor was Robinson, who was sitting up feeling his skull in a
gingerly fashion. To Mike's right, almost touching him, was Stone. In
the direction of the door, Psmith, wielding in his right hand the cord
of a dressing gown, was engaging the remaining three with a
patient smile.
They were clad in pajamas, and appeared to be feeling the dressing-gown
cord acutely.
The sudden light dazed both sides momentarily. The defense was the first
to recover, Mike, with a swing, upsetting Stone, and Psmith, having
seized and emptied Jellicoe's jug over Spiller, getting to work again
with the cord in a manner that roused the utmost enthusiasm of the
spectators.
Agility seemed to be the leading feature of Psmith's tactics. He was
everywhere - on Mike's bed, on his own, on Jellicoe's (drawing a
passionate complaint from that noncombatant, on whose face he
inadvertently trod), on the floor - he ranged the room, sowing
destruction.
The enemy were disheartened; they had started with the idea that this
was to be a surprise attack, and it was disconcerting to find the
garrison armed at all points. Gradually they edged to the door, and a
final rush sent them through.
"Hold the door for a second," cried Psmith, and vanished. Mike was alone
in the doorway.
It was a situation which exactly suited his frame of mind; he stood
alone in direct opposition to the community into which Fate had
pitchforked him so abruptly. He liked the feeling; for the first time
since his father had given him his views upon school reports that
morning in the Easter holidays, he felt satisfied with life. He hoped,
outnumbered as he was, that the enemy would come on again and not give
the thing up in disgust; he wanted more.
On an occasion like this there is rarely anything approaching concerted
action on the part of the aggressors. When the attack came, it was not a
combined attack; Stone, who was nearest to the door, made a sudden dash
forward, and Mike hit him under the chin.
Stone drew back, and there was another interval for rest and reflection.
It was interrupted by the reappearance of Psmith, who strolled back
along the passage swinging his dressing-gown cord as if it were some
clouded cane.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Comrade Jackson," he said politely. "Duty
called me elsewhere. With the kindly aid of a guide who knows the lie of
the land, I have been making a short tour of the dormitories. I have
poured divers jugfuls of water over Comrade Spiller's bed, Comrade
Robinson's bed, Comrade Stone's - Spiller, Spiller, these are harsh
words; where you pick them up I can't think - not from me. Well, well, I
suppose there must be an end to the pleasantest of functions. Good
night, good night."
The door closed behind Mike and himself. For ten minutes shufflings and
whisperings went on in the corridor, but nobody touched the handle.
Then there was a sound of retreating footsteps, and silence reigned.
On the following morning there was a notice on the house board. It ran:
INDOOR GAMES
_Dormitory raiders are informed that in future neither Mr. Psmith
nor Mr. Jackson will be at home to visitors. This nuisance must now
cease._
R. PSMITH.
M. JACKSON.
7
ADAIR
On the same morning Mike met Adair for the first time.
He was going across to school with Psmith and Jellicoe, when a group of
three came out of the gate of the house next door.
"That's Adair," said Jellicoe, "in the middle."
His voice had assumed a tone almost of awe.
"Who's Adair?" asked Mike.
"Captain of cricket, and lots of other things."
Mike could only see the celebrity's back. He had broad shoulders and
wiry, light hair, almost white. He walked well, as if he were used to
running. Altogether a fit-looking sort of man. Even Mike's jaundiced
eye saw that.
As a matter of fact, Adair deserved more than a casual glance. He was
that rare type, the natural leader. Many boys and men, if accident, or
the passage of time, places them in a position where they are expected
to lead, can handle the job without disaster; but that is a very
different thing from being a born leader. Adair was of the sort that
comes to the top by sheer force of character and determination. He was
not naturally clever at work, but he had gone at it with a dogged
resolution which had carried him up the school, and landed him high in
the Sixth. As a cricketer he was almost entirely self-taught. Nature had
given him a good eye, and left the thing at that. Adair's doggedness had
triumphed over her failure to do her work thoroughly. At the cost of
more trouble than most people give to their life work he had made
himself into a bowler. He read the authorities, and watched first-class
players, and thought the thing out on his own account, and he divided
the art of bowling into three sections. First, and most
important - pitch. Second on the list - break. Third - pace. He set himself
to acquire pitch. He acquired it. Bowling at his own pace and without
any attempt at break, he could now drop the ball on an envelope seven
times out of ten.
Break was a more uncertain quantity. Sometimes he could get it at the
expense of pitch, sometimes at the expense of pace. Some days he could
get all three, and then he was an uncommonly bad man to face on anything
but a plumb wicket.
Running he had acquired in a similar manner. He had nothing approaching
style, but he had twice won the mile and half mile at the Sports off
elegant runners, who knew all about stride and the correct timing of the
sprints and all the rest of it.
Briefly, he was a worker. He had heart.
A boy of Adair's type is always a force in a school. In a big public
school or six or seven hundred, his influence is felt less; but in a
small school like Sedleigh he is like a tidal wave, sweeping all before
him. There were two hundred boys at Sedleigh, and there was not one of
them in all probability who had not, directly or indirectly, been
influenced by Adair. As a small boy his sphere was not large, but the
effects of his work began to be apparent even then. It is human nature
to want to get something which somebody else obviously values very much;
and when it was observed by members of his form that Adair was going to
great trouble and inconvenience to secure a place in the form eleven or
fifteen, they naturally began to think, too, that it was worth being in
those teams. The consequence was that his form always played hard. This
made other forms play hard. And the net result was that, when Adair
succeeded to the captaincy of Rugger and cricket in the same year,
Sedleigh, as Mr. Downing, Adair's housemaster and the nearest approach
to a cricket master that Sedleigh possessed, had a fondness for saying,
was a keen school. As a whole, it both worked and played with energy.
All it wanted now was opportunity.
This Adair was determined to give it. He had that passionate fondness
for his school which every boy is popularly supposed to have, but which
really is implanted in about one in every thousand. The average
public-school boy _likes_ his school. He hopes it will lick Bedford at
Rugger and Malvern at cricket, but he rather bets it won't. He is sorry
to leave, and he likes going back at the end of the holidays, but as for
any passionate, deep-seated love of the place, he would think it rather
bad form than otherwise. If anybody came up to him, slapped him on the
back, and cried, "Come along, Jenkins, my boy! Play up for the old
school, Jenkins! The dear old school! The old place you love so!" he
would feel seriously ill.
Adair was the exception.
To Adair, Sedleigh was almost a religion. Both his parents were dead;
his guardian, with whom he spent the holidays, was a man with neuralgia
at one end of him and gout at the other; and the only really pleasant
times Adair had had, as far back as he could remember, he owed to
Sedleigh. The place had grown on him, absorbed him. Where Mike,
violently transplanted from Wrykyn, saw only a wretched little hole not
to be mentioned in the same breath with Wrykyn, Adair, dreaming of the
future, saw a colossal establishment, a public school among public
schools, a lump of human radium, shooting out Blues and Balliol Scholars
year after year without ceasing.
It would not be so till long after he was gone and forgotten, but he did
not mind that. His devotion to Sedleigh was purely unselfish. He did not
want fame. All he worked for was that the school should grow and grow,
keener and better at games and more prosperous year by year, till it
should take its rank among _the_ schools, and to be an Old Sedleighan
should be a badge passing its owner everywhere.
"He's captain of cricket and Rugger," said Jellicoe impressively. "He's
in the shooting eight. He's won the mile and half mile two years
running. He would have boxed at Aldershot last term, only he sprained
his wrist. And he plays fives jolly well!"
"Sort of little tin god," said Mike, taking a violent dislike to Adair
from that moment.
Mike's actual acquaintance with this all-round man dated from the dinner
hour that day. Mike was walking to the house with Psmith. Psmith was a
little ruffled on account of a slight passage-of-arms he had had with
his form master during morning school.
"'There's a P before the Smith,' I said to him. 'Ah, P. Smith, I see,'
replied the goat. 'Not Peasmith,' I replied, exercising wonderful
self-restraint, 'just Psmith.' It took me ten minutes to drive the thing
into the man's head; and when I _had_ driven it in, he sent me out of
the room for looking at him through my eyeglass. Comrade Jackson, I fear
me we have fallen among bad men. I suspect that we are going to be much
persecuted by scoundrels."
"Both you chaps play cricket, I suppose?"
They turned. It was Adair. Seeing him face to face, Mike was aware of a
pair of very bright blue eyes and a square jaw. In any other place and
mood he would have liked Adair at sight. His prejudice, however, against
all things Sedleighan was too much for him. "I don't," he said shortly.
"Haven't you _ever_ played?"
"My little sister and I sometimes play with a soft ball at home."
Adair looked sharply at him. A temper was evidently one of his numerous
qualities.
"Oh," he said. "Well, perhaps you wouldn't mind turning out this
afternoon and seeing what you can do with a hard ball - if you can manage
without your little sister."
"I should think the form at this place would be about on a level with
hers. But I don't happen to be playing cricket, as I think I told you."
Adair's jaw grew squarer than ever. Mike was wearing a gloomy scowl.
Psmith joined suavely in the dialogue.
"My dear old comrades," he said, "Don't let us brawl over this matter.
This is a time for the honeyed word, the kindly eye, and the pleasant
smile. Let me explain to Comrade Adair. Speaking for Comrade Jackson and
myself, we should both be delighted to join in the mimic warfare of our
National Game, as you suggest, only the fact is, we happen to be the
Young Archaeologists. We gave in our names last night. When you are
being carried back to the pavilion after your century against
Loamshire - do you play Loamshire? - we shall be grubbing in the hard
ground for ruined abbeys. The old choice between Pleasure and Duty,
Comrade Adair. A Boy's Crossroads."
"Then you won't play?"
"No," said Mike.
"Archaeology," said Psmith, with a deprecatory wave of the hand, "will
brook no divided allegiance from her devotees."
Adair turned, and walked on.
Scarcely had he gone, when another voice hailed them with precisely the
same question.
"Both you fellows are going to play cricket, eh?"
It was a master. A short, wiry little man with a sharp nose and a
general resemblance, both in manner and appearance, to an excitable
bullfinch.
"I saw Adair speaking to you. I suppose you will both play. I like every
new boy to begin at once. The more new blood we have, the better. We
want keenness here. We are, above all, a keen school. I want every boy
to be keen."
"We are, sir," said Psmith, with fervor.
"Excellent."
"On archaeology."
Mr. Downing - for it was no less a celebrity - started, as one who
perceives a loathly caterpillar in his salad.
"Archaeology!"
"We gave in our names to Mr. Outwood last night, sir. Archaeology is a
passion with us, sir. When we heard that there was a society here, we
went singing about the house."
"I call it an unnatural pursuit for boys," said Mr. Downing vehemently.
"I don't like it. I tell you I don't like it. It is not for me to
interfere with one of my colleagues on the staff, but I tell you frankly
that in my opinion it is an abominable waste of time for a boy. It gets
him into idle, loafing habits."
"I never loaf, sir," said Psmith.
"I was not alluding to you in particular. I was referring to the
principle of the thing. A boy ought to be playing cricket with other
boys, not wandering at large about the country, probably smoking and
going into low public houses."
"A very wild lot, sir, I fear, the Archaeological Society here," sighed
Psmith, shaking his head.
"If you choose to waste your time, I suppose I can't hinder you. But in
my opinion it is foolery, nothing else."
He stumped off.
"Now _he's_ cross," said Psmith, looking after him. "I'm afraid we're
getting ourselves disliked here."
"Good job, too."
"At any rate, Comrade Outwood loves us. Let's go on and see what sort of
a lunch that large-hearted fossil fancier is going to give us."
8
MIKE FINDS OCCUPATION
There was more than one moment during the first fortnight of term when
Mike found himself regretting the attitude he had imposed upon himself
with regard to Sedleighan cricket. He began to realize the eternal truth
of the proverb about half a loaf and no bread. In the first flush of his
resentment against his new surroundings he had refused to play cricket.
And now he positively ached for a game. Any sort of a game. An innings
for a Kindergarten _v_. the Second Eleven of a Home of Rest for
Centenarians would have soothed him. There were times, when the sun
shone, and he caught sight of white flannels on a green ground, and
heard the "plonk" of bat striking ball, when he felt like rushing to
Adair and shouting, "I _will_ be good. I was in the Wrykyn team three
years, and had an average of over fifty the last two seasons. Lead me to
the nearest net, and let me feel a bat in my hands again."
But every time he shrank from such a climb down. It couldn't be done.
What made it worse was that he saw, after watching behind the nets once
or twice, that Sedleigh cricket was not the childish burlesque of the
game which he had been rash enough to assume that it must be. Numbers do
not make good cricket. They only make the presence of good cricketers
more likely, by the law of averages.
Mike soon saw that cricket was by no means an unknown art at Sedleigh.
Adair, to begin with, was a very good bowler indeed. He was not a
Burgess, but Burgess was the only Wrykyn bowler whom, in his three
years' experience of the school, Mike would have placed above him. He
was a long way better than Neville-Smith, and Wyatt, and Milton, and the
others who had taken wickets for Wrykyn.
The batting was not so good, but there were some quite capable men.
Barnes, the head of Outwood's, he who preferred not to interfere with
Stone and Robinson, was a mild, rather timid-looking youth - not unlike
what Mr. Outwood must have been as a boy - but he knew how to keep balls
out of his wicket. He was a good bat of the old plodding type.
Stone and Robinson themselves, that swashbuckling pair, who now treated
Mike and Psmith with cold but consistent politeness, were both fair
batsmen, and Stone was a good slow bowler.
There were other exponents of the game, mostly in Downing's house.
Altogether, quite worthy colleagues even for a man who had been a star
at Wrykyn.
* * * * *
One solitary overture Mike made during that first fortnight. He did not
repeat the experiment.
It was on a Thursday afternoon, after school. The day was warm, but
freshened by an almost imperceptible breeze. The air was full of the
scent of the cut grass which lay in little heaps behind the nets. This
is the real cricket scent, which calls to one like the very voice of
the game.
Mike, as he sat there watching, could stand it no longer.
He went up to Adair.
"May I have an innings at this net?" he asked. He was embarrassed and
nervous, and was trying not to show it. The natural result was that his
manner was offensively abrupt.
Adair was taking off his pads after his innings. He looked up. "This
net," it may be observed, was the first eleven net.
"What?" he said.
Mike repeated his request. More abruptly this time, from increased
embarrassment.
"This is the first eleven net," said Adair coldly. "Go in after Lodge
over there."
"Over there" was the end net, where frenzied novices were bowling on a
corrugated pitch to a red-haired youth with enormous feet, who looked as
if he were taking his first lesson at the game.
Mike walked away without a word.
* * * * *
The Archaeological Society expeditions, even though they carried with
them the privilege of listening to Psmith's views of life, proved but a
poor substitute for cricket. Psmith, who had no counterattraction
shouting to him that he ought to be elsewhere, seemed to enjoy them
hugely, but Mike almost cried sometimes from boredom. It was not always
possible to slip away from the throng, for Mr. Outwood evidently looked
upon them as among the very faithful, and kept them by his side.
Mike on these occasions was silent and jumpy, his brow "sicklied o'er
with the pale cast of care." But Psmith followed his leader with the
pleased and indulgent air of a father whose infant son is showing him
round the garden. Psmith's attitude toward archaeological research
struck a new note in the history of that neglected science. He was
amiable, but patronizing. He patronized fossils, and he patronized
ruins. If he had been confronted with the Great Pyramid, he would have
patronized that.
He seemed to be consumed by a thirst for knowledge.
That this was not altogether a genuine thirst was proved in the third
expedition. Mr. Outwood and his band were pecking away at the site of an
old Roman camp. Psmith approached Mike.
"Having inspired confidence," he said, "by the docility of our demeanor,
let us slip away, and brood apart for awhile. Roman camps, to be
absolutely accurate, give me the pip. And I never want to see another
putrid fossil in my life. Let us find some shady nook where a man may
lie on his back for a bit."
Mike, over whom the proceedings connected with the Roman camp had long
since begun to shed a blue depression, offered no opposition, and they
strolled away down the hill.
Looking back, they saw that the archaeologists were still hard at it.
Their departure had passed unnoticed.
"A fatiguing pursuit, this grubbing for mementos of the past," said
Psmith. "And, above all, dashed bad for the knees of the trousers. Mine
are like some furrowed field. It's a great grief to a man of refinement,
I can tell you, Comrade Jackson. Ah, this looks a likely spot."
They had passed through a gate into the field beyond. At the farther end
there was a brook, shaded by trees and running with a pleasant sound
over pebbles.
"Thus far," said Psmith, hitching up the knees of his trousers, and
sitting down, "and no farther. We will rest here awhile, and listen to
the music of the brook. In fact, unless you have anything important to
say, I rather think I'll go to sleep. In this busy life of ours these
naps by the wayside are invaluable. Call me in about an hour." And
Psmith, heaving the comfortable sigh of the worker who by toil has
earned rest, lay down, with his head against a mossy tree stump, and
closed his eyes.
Mike sat on for a few minutes, listening to the water and making
centuries in his mind, and then, finding this a little dull, he got up,