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The crowd was becoming more threatening every minute. A group of young men of the loafer class who stood near Mike were especially fertile in comment. Psmith's eyes were on the speaker; but Mike was watching this group closely. Suddenly he saw one of them, a thick-set youth wearing a cloth cap and no collar, stoop. When he rose again there was a stone in his hand.
A slight softening of the frigidity of the constable's manner became noticeable. There was a milder beam in the eyes which gazed into Psmith's. Nor did the conductor seem altogether uninfluenced by the sight. He added that, when they reached the trem, the two gents had got aboard, and was then set upon by the blokes.
The only flaw in Psmith's contentment was the absence of Billy Windsor. On this night of all nights the editorial staff of Cosy Moments should have been together to celebrate the successful outcome of their campaign. Psmith dined alone, his enjoyment of the rather special dinner which he felt justified in ordering in honour of the occasion somewhat diminished by the thought of Billy's hard case.
In one lightning rally in the third he brought his right across squarely on to the Kid's jaw. It was a blow which should have knocked any boxer out. The Kid merely staggered slightly and returned to business, still smiling. "See!" roared Billy enthusiastically in Psmith's ear, above the uproar. "He doesn't mind it! He likes it! He comes from Wyoming!"
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 burst forth. Even Psmith's massive calm was shattered. As for Jellicoe, he sobbed in a corner. Sammy's beautiful white coat was almost entirely concealed by a thick covering of bright red paint.
He had taken his seat and was closing the door, when it was snatched from his grasp and Mr. Parker darted on to the seat opposite. The next moment the cab had started up the street instead of down and the hard muzzle of a revolver was pressing against Psmith's waistcoat. "Now what?" said Mr. Parker smoothly, leaning back with the pistol resting easily on his knee.
Downing's announcement of Psmith's confession, that Psmith, too, was guiltless, and that the real criminal was Dunster it was this that made him feel that somebody, in the words of an American author, had played a mean trick on him, and substituted for his brain a side-order of cauliflower. Why Dunster, of all people? Dunster, who, he remembered dizzily, had left the school at Christmas.
To be absolutely accurate, there were three thousand seven hundred and eighteen members. To Mr Bickersdyke for the next week it seemed as if there was only one. There was nothing crude or overdone about Psmith's methods. The ordinary man, having conceived the idea of haunting a fellow clubman, might have seized the first opportunity of engaging him in conversation. Not so Psmith.
"You would have done better, Smith, not to have given me all this trouble. You have done yourself no good by it." "It's been great fun, though, sir," argued Psmith. "Fun!" Mr. Downing laughed grimly. "You may have reason to change your opinion of what constitutes " His voice failed as his eye fell on the all-black toe of the boot. He looked up, and caught Psmith's benevolent gaze.
Psmith's face was wooden in its gravity. 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 to our general worth than to our proficiency in school-work." Mr.
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