12 Mike

Mike seemed unable to remove his eyes from the boot.

“How on earth did—By Jove! I remember now. I kicked up against something in the dark when I was putting my bicycle back that night. It must have been the paint-pot.”

“Then you were out that night?”

“Rather. That’s what makes it so jolly awkward. It’s too long to tell you now–-“

“Your stories are never too long for me,” said Psmith. “Say on!”

“Well, it was like this.” And Mike related the events which had led up to his midnight excursion. Psmith listened attentively.

“This,” he said, when Mike had finished, “confirms my frequently stated opinion that Comrade Jellicoe is one of Nature’s blitherers. So that’s why he touched us for our hard-earned, was it?”

“Yes. Of course there was no need for him to have the money at all.”

“And the result is that you are in something of a tight place. You’re absolutely certain you didn’t paint that dog? Didn’t do it, by any chance, in a moment of absent-mindedness, and forgot all about it? No? No, I suppose not. I wonder who did!”

“It’s beastly awkward. You see, Downing chased me that night. That was why I rang the alarm bell. So, you see, he’s certain to think that the chap he chased, which was me, and the chap who painted Sammy, are the same. I shall get landed both ways.”

Psmith pondered.

“It is a tightish place,” he admitted.

“I wonder if we could get this boot clean,” said Mike, inspecting it with disfavour.

“Not for a pretty considerable time.”

“I suppose not. I say, I am in the cart. If I can’t produce this boot, they’re bound to guess why.”

“What exactly,” asked Psmith, “was the position of affairs between you and Comrade Downing when you left him? Had you definitely parted brass-rags? Or did you simply sort of drift apart with mutual courtesies?”

“Oh, he said I was ill-advised to continue that attitude, or some rot, and I said I didn’t care, I hadn’t painted his bally dog, and he said very well, then, he must take steps, and—well, that was about all.”

“Sufficient, too,” said Psmith, “quite sufficient. I take it, then, that he is now on the war-path, collecting a gang, so to speak.”

“I suppose he’s gone to the Old Man about it.”

“Probably. A very worrying time our headmaster is having, taking it all round, in connection with this painful affair. What do you think his move will be?”

“I suppose he’ll send for me, and try to get something out of me.”

“He’ll want you to confess, too. Masters are all whales on confession. The worst of it is, you can’t prove an alibi, because at about the time the foul act was perpetrated, you were playing Round-and- round-the-mulberry-bush with Comrade Downing. This needs thought. You had better put the case in my hands, and go out and watch the dandelions growing. I will think over the matter.”

“Well, I hope you’ll be able to think of something. I can’t.”

“Possibly. You never know.”

There was a tap at the door.

“See how we have trained them,” said Psmith. “They now knock before entering. There was a time when they would have tried to smash in a panel. Come in.”

A small boy, carrying a straw hat adorned with the school-house ribbon, answered the invitation.

“Oh, I say, Jackson,” he said, “the headmaster sent me over to tell you he wants to see you.”

“I told you so,” said Mike to Psmith.

“Don’t go,” suggested Psmith. “Tell him to write.”

Mike got up.

“All this is very trying,” said Psmith. “I’m seeing nothing of you to-day.” He turned to the small boy. “Tell Willie,” he added, “that Mr. Jackson will be with him in a moment.”

The emissary departed.

“You’re all right,” said Psmith encouragingly. “Just you keep on saying you’re all right. Stout denial is the thing. Don’t go in for any airy explanations. Simply stick to stout denial. You can’t beat it.”

With which expert advice, he allowed Mike to go on his way.

He had not been gone two minutes, when Psmith, who had leaned back in his chair, wrapped in thought, heaved himself up again. He stood for a moment straightening his tie at the looking-glass; then he picked up his hat and moved slowly out of the door and down the passage. Thence, at the same dignified rate of progress, out of the house and in at Downing’s front gate.

The postman was at the door when he got there, apparently absorbed in conversation with the parlour-maid. Psmith stood by politely till the postman, who had just been told it was like his impudence, caught sight of him, and, having handed over the letters in an ultra-formal and professional manner, passed away.

“Is Mr. Downing at home?” inquired Psmith.