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Pedestrians who had the good fortune to be passing along the road between the housemaster's house and Mr. Outwood's at that moment saw what, if they had but known it, was a most unusual sight, the spectacle of Psmith running. Psmith's usual mode of progression was a dignified walk. He believed in the contemplative style rather than the hustling.
Psmith took the boot, and doing so, understood what before had puzzled him. 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, and when, on the following day, the housemaster goes about in search of a paint-splashed boot, one puts two and two together.
Mike could not imagine Psmith doing a rotten thing like covering a housemaster's dog with red paint, any more than he could imagine doing it himself. They had both been amused at the sight of Sammy after the operation, but anybody, except possibly the owner of the dog, would have thought it funny at first.
"It is still raining," he observed. "You wished to see me, sir?" "Sit down, Smith." "Thank you, sir." Mr. Downing burst out, like a reservoir that has broken its banks. "Smith." Psmith turned his gaze politely in the housemaster's direction. "Smith, you came to me a quarter of an hour ago and told me that it was you who had painted my dog Sampson." "Yes, sir." "It was absolutely untrue?"
Seymour would like to have a friendly chat with him in his study. Laying aside his handy model steam-engine, he went off to the housemaster's study. "You were late for breakfast to-day," said Mr. Seymour, in the horrid, abrupt way housemasters have. "Why, yes, sir," said Chapple, pleasantly. "And the day before." "Yes, sir." "And the day before that." Chapple did not deny it.
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, and when, on the following day, the housemaster goes about in search of a paint splashed shoe, one puts two and two together. Psmith looked at the name inside the shoe. It was "Brown bootmaker, Bridgnorth." Bridgnorth was only a few miles from his own home and Mike's.
Masters, as a rule, do not realize this, but boys nearly always do. Mike could not imagine Psmith doing a rotten thing like covering a housemaster's dog with red paint, any more than he could imagine doing it himself. They had both been amused at the sight of Sammy after the operation, but anybody, except possibly the owner of the dog, would have thought it funny at first.
"It is still raining," he observed. "You wished to see me, sir?" "Sit down, Smith." "Thank you, sir." Mr. Downing burst out, like a reservoir that has broken its banks. "Smith." Psmith turned his gaze politely in the housemaster's direction. "Smith, you came to me a quarter of an hour ago and told me that it was you who had painted my dog Sampson." "Yes, sir." "It was absolutely untrue?"
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