PSMITH
“Jackson,” said Mike.
“Are you the Bully, the Pride of the School, or the Boy who is Led
Astray and takes to Drink in Chapter Sixteen?”
“The last, for choice,” said Mike, “but I’ve only just arrived, so I
don’t know.”
“The boy--what will he become? Are you new here, too, then?”
“Yes! Why, are you new?”
“Do I look as if I belonged here? I’m the latest import. Sit down
on yonder settee, and I will tell you the painful story of my life.
By the way, before I start, there’s just one thing. If you ever
have occasion to write to me, would you mind sticking a P at the
beginning of my name? P-s-m-i-t-h. See? There are too many Smiths,
and I don’t care for Smythe. My father’s content to worry along in
the old-fashioned way, but I’ve decided to strike out a fresh line.
I shall found a new dynasty. The resolve came to me unexpectedly this
morning, as I was buying a simple penn’orth of butterscotch out of
the automatic machine at Paddington. I jotted it down on the back of
an envelope. In conversation you may address me as Rupert (though I
hope you won’t), or simply Smith, the P not being sounded. Cp. the
name Zbysco, in which the Z is given a similar miss-in-baulk. See?”
Mike said he saw. Psmith thanked him with a certain stately old-world
courtesy.
“Let us start at the beginning,” he resumed. “My infancy. When I was
but a babe, my eldest sister was bribed with a shilling an hour by my
nurse to keep an eye on me, and see that I did not raise Cain. At the
end of the first day she struck for one-and six, and got it. We now
pass to my boyhood. At an early age, I was sent to Eton, everybody
predicting a bright career for me. But,” said Psmith solemnly, fixing
an owl-like gaze on Mike through the eye-glass, “it was not to be.”
“No?” said Mike.
“No. I was superannuated last term.”
“Bad luck.”
“For Eton, yes. But what Eton loses, Sedleigh gains.”
“But why Sedleigh, of all places?”
“This is the most painful part of my narrative. It seems that a
certain scug in the next village to ours happened last year to collar
a Balliol----”
“Not Barlitt!” exclaimed Mike.
“That was the man. The son of the vicar. The vicar told the curate,
who told our curate, who told our vicar, who told my father, who sent
me off here to get a Balliol too. Do _you_ know Barlitt?”
“His pater’s vicar of our village. It was because his son got a
Balliol that I was sent here.”
“Do you come from Crofton?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve lived at Lower Benford all my life. We are practically long-lost
brothers. Cheer a little, will you?”
Mike felt as Robinson Crusoe felt when he met Friday. Here was a
fellow human being in this desert place. He could almost have embraced
Psmith. The very sound of the name Lower Benford was heartening. His
dislike for his new school was not diminished, but now he felt that
life there might at least be tolerable.
“Where were you before you came here?” asked Psmith. “You have heard
my painful story. Now tell me yours.”
“Wrykyn. My pater took me away because I got such a lot of bad
reports.”
“My reports from Eton were simply scurrilous. There’s a libel action
in every sentence. How do you like this place from what you’ve seen of
it?”
“Rotten.”
“I am with you, Comrade Jackson. You won’t mind my calling you
Comrade, will you? I’ve just become a Socialist. It’s a great scheme.
You ought to be one. You work for the equal distribution of property,
and start by collaring all you can and sitting on it. We must stick
together. We are companions in misfortune. Lost lambs. Sheep that have
gone astray. Divided, we fall, together we may worry through. Have you
seen Professor Radium yet? I should say Mr. Outwood. What do you think
of him?”
“He doesn’t seem a bad sort of chap. Bit off his nut. Jawed about
apses and things.”
“And thereby,” said Psmith, “hangs a tale. I’ve been making inquiries
of a stout sportsman in a sort of Salvation Army uniform, whom I met
in the grounds--he’s the school sergeant or something, quite a solid
man--and I hear that Comrade Outwood’s an archaeological cove. Goes
about the country beating up old ruins and fossils and things. There’s
an Archaeological Society in the school, run by him. It goes out on
half-holidays, prowling about, and is allowed to break bounds and
generally steep itself to the eyebrows in reckless devilry. And,
mark you, laddie, if you belong to the Archaeological Society you
get off cricket. To get off cricket,” said Psmith, dusting his right
trouser-leg, “was the dream of my youth and the aspiration of my riper
years. A noble game, but a bit too thick for me. At Eton I used to have
to field out at the nets till the soles of my boots wore through. I
suppose you are a blood at the game? Play for the school against
Loamshire, and so on.”
“I’m not going to play here, at any rate,” said Mike.
He had made up his mind on this point in the train. There is a certain
fascination about making the very worst of a bad job. Achilles knew
his business when he sat in his tent. The determination not to play
cricket for Sedleigh as he could not play for Wrykyn gave Mike a sort
of pleasure. To stand by with folded arms and a sombre frown, as it
were, was one way of treating the situation, and one not without its
meed of comfort.
Psmith approved the resolve.
“Stout fellow,” he said. “’Tis well. You and I, hand in hand, will
search the countryside for ruined abbeys. We will snare the elusive
fossil together. Above all, we will go out of bounds. We shall thus
improve our minds, and have a jolly good time as well. I shouldn’t
wonder if one mightn’t borrow a gun from some friendly native, and do
a bit of rabbit-shooting here and there. From what I saw of Comrade
Outwood during our brief interview, I shouldn’t think he was one of
the lynx-eyed contingent. With tact we ought to be able to slip away
from the merry throng of fossil-chasers, and do a bit on our own
account.”
“Good idea,” said Mike. “We will. A chap at Wrykyn, called Wyatt, used
to break out at night and shoot at cats with an air-pistol.”
“It would take a lot to make me do that. I am all against anything
that interferes with my sleep. But rabbits in the daytime is a scheme.
We’ll nose about for a gun at the earliest opp. Meanwhile we’d better
go up to Comrade Outwood, and get our names shoved down for the
Society.”
“I vote we get some tea first somewhere.”
“Then let’s beat up a study. I suppose they have studies here. Let’s
go and look.”
They went upstairs. On the first floor there was a passage with doors
on either side. Psmith opened the first of these.
“This’ll do us well,” he said.
It was a biggish room, looking out over the school grounds. There were
a couple of deal tables, two empty bookcases, and a looking-glass,
hung on a nail.
“Might have been made for us,” said Psmith approvingly.
“I suppose it belongs to some rotter.”
“Not now.”
“You aren’t going to collar it!”
“That,” said Psmith, looking at himself earnestly in the mirror, and
straightening his tie, “is the exact programme. We must stake out our
claims. This is practical Socialism.”
“But the real owner’s bound to turn up some time or other.”
“His misfortune, not ours. You can’t expect two master-minds like us
to pig it in that room downstairs. There are moments when one wants to
be alone. It is imperative that we have a place to retire to after a
fatiguing day. And now, if you want to be really useful, come and help
me fetch up my box from downstairs. It’s got an Etna and various
things in it.”