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No more wickets fell before the drawing of stumps. Psmith waited for Mike while he changed, and carried him off in a cab to Simpson's, a restaurant which, as he justly observed, offered two great advantages, namely, that you need not dress, and, secondly, that you paid your half-crown, and were then at liberty to eat till you were helpless, if you felt so disposed, without extra charge.
"This," said Psmith, deeply interested, "is getting about as tense as anything I ever struck. Don't give in, Comrade Maloney. Who knows but that you may yet win through? I fancy the trouble is that your too perfect Italian accent is making the youth home-sick. Once more to the breach, Comrade Maloney." Master Maloney made a gesture of disgust. "I'm t'roo. Dese Dagoes makes me tired.
I wouldn't have missed it for worlds. Psmith regarded him with raised eyebrows. 'Rag! he said. 'Comrade Jackson, I do not understand you. You surely do not think that I had any other object in doing what I did than to serve Comrade Bickersdyke? It's terrible how one's motives get distorted in this world of ours.
But for you I do not care to think with what a splash I might not have been immersed in the gumbo. Thank you, Comrade Jarvis. And you, Comrade Otto." "Aw chee!" said Mr. Jarvis, handsomely dismissing the matter. Mr. Otto kicked the leg of the table, and grunted. For half an hour after the departure of the Three Pointers Psmith chatted amiably to his two assistants on matters of general interest.
"It's mostly about my boots. But, dash it, you know all about that. Why, you were with him when he came and looked for them." "It is true," said Psmith, "that Comrade Downing and I spent a very pleasant half-hour together inspecting boots, but how does he drag you into it?" "He swears one of the boots was splashed with paint." "Yes.
The subject is not hard to master if one sets oneself earnestly to it; and Psmith spared no pains. The football editions of the evening papers are not reticent about those who play the game: and Psmith drank in every detail with the thoroughness of the conscientious student.
Psmith, who was leaning against the mantelpiece, reading the serial story in a daily paper which he had abstracted from the senior day room, made the intruder free of the study with a dignified wave of the hand, and went on reading. Mike remained in the deck chair in which he was sitting, and contented himself with glaring at the newcomer. Psmith was the first to speak.
"There are few pleasures," said Psmith, as he resumed his favourite 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 roof-tree. This place would have been wasted on Spiller; he would not have appreciated it properly." Mike was finishing his tea.
That he should be privileged to look upon the author of "Moments of Mirth" in the flesh, face to face, was almost too much. "Comrade Asher," he said reverently, "may I shake your hand?" The other extended his hand with some suspicion. "Your 'Moments of Mirth," said Psmith, shaking it, "have frequently reconciled me to the toothache." He reseated himself.
"There is no forgive me if I am touching on a sad subject there is no ... none of your near relatives have ever suffered in the way I ... er ... have described?" "There isn't a lunatic on the list, sir," said Psmith cheerfully.
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