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: