citizen clubbed by a policeman. No negroes dance cake-walks in the street. No cow-boy has let off his revolver at random in Broadway. The cables flash the message across the ocean, 'Psmith is losing his illusions.''
Mike had come to America with a team of the M.C.C. which was touring the cricket-playing section of the United States. Psmith had accompanied him in a private capacity. It was the end of their first year at Cambridge, and Mike, with a century against Oxford to his credit, had been one of the first to be invited to join the tour. Psmith, who had played cricket in a rather desultory way at the University, had not risen to these heights. He had merely taken the opportunity of Mike's visit to the other side to accompany him. Cambridge had proved pleasant to Psmith, but a trifle quiet. He had welcomed the chance of getting a change of scene.
So far the visit had failed to satisfy him. Mike, whose tastes in pleasure were simple, was delighted with everything. The cricket so far had been rather of the picnic order, but it was very pleasant; and there was no limit to the hospitality with which the visitors were treated. It was this more than anything which had caused Psmith's grave disapproval of things American. He was not a member of the team, so that the advantages of the hospitality did not reach him. He had all the disadvantages. He saw far too little of Mike. When he wished to consult his confidential secretary and adviser on some aspect of Life, that invaluable official was generally absent at dinner with the rest of the team. To-night was one of the rare occasions when Mike could get away. Psmith was becoming bored. New York is a better city than London to be alone in, but it is never pleasant to be alone in any big city.
As they sat discussing New York's shortcomings over their coffee, a young man passed them, carrying a basket, and seated himself at the next table. He was a tall, loose-jointed young man, with unkempt hair.
A waiter made an ingratiating gesture towards the basket, but the young man stopped him. 'Not on your life, sonny,' he said. 'This stays right here.' He placed it carefully on the floor beside his chair, and proceeded to order dinner.
Psmith watched him thoughtfully.
'I have a suspicion, Comrade Jackson,' he said, 'that this will prove to be a somewhat stout fellow. If possible, we will engage him in conversation. I wonder what he's got in the basket. I must get my Sherlock Holmes system to work. What is the most likely thing for a man to have in a basket? You would reply, in your unthinking way, 'sandwiches.' Error. A man with a basketful of sandwiches does not need to dine at restaurants. We must try again.'
The young man at the next table had ordered a jug of milk to be accompanied by a saucer. These having arrived, he proceeded to lift the basket on to his lap, pour the milk into the saucer, and remove the lid from the basket. Instantly, with a yell which made the young man's table the centre of interest to all the diners, a large grey cat shot up like a rocket, and darted across the room. Psmith watched with silent interest.
It is hard to astonish the waiters at a New York restaurant, but when the cat performed this feat there was a squeal of surprise all round the room. Waiters rushed to and fro, futile but energetic. The cat, having secured a strong strategic position on the top of a large oil-painting which hung on the far wall, was expressing loud disapproval of the efforts of one of the waiters to drive it from its post with a walking-stick. The young man, seeing these manoeuvres, uttered a wrathful shout, and rushed to the rescue.
'Comrade Jackson,' said Psmith, rising, 'we must be in this.'
When they arrived on the scene of hostilities, the young man had just possessed himself of the walking-stick, and was deep in a complex argument with the head-waiter on the ethics of the matter. The head-waiter, a stout impassive German, had taken his stand on a point of etiquette. 'Id is,' he said, 'to bring gats into der grill-room vorbidden. No gendleman would gats into der grill-room bring. Der gendleman--'
The young man meanwhile was making enticing sounds, to which the cat was maintaining an attitude of reserved hostility. He turned furiously on the head-waiter.
'For goodness' sake,' he cried, 'can't you see the poor brute's scared stiff? Why don't you clear your gang of German comedians away, and give her a chance to come down?'
'Der gendleman--' argued the head-waiter.
Psmith stepped forward and touched him on the arm.
'May I have a word with you in private?'
'Zo?'
Psmith drew him away.
'You don't know who that is?' he whispered, nodding towards the young man.
'No gendleman he is,' asserted the head-waiter. 'Der gendleman would not der gat into--'
Psmith shook his head pityingly.
'These petty matters of etiquette are not for his Grace--but, hush, he wishes to preserve his incognito.'
'Ingognito?'
'You understand. You are a man of the world, Comrade--may I call you Freddie? You understand, Comrade Freddie, that in a man in his Grace's position a few little eccentricities may be pardoned. You follow me, Frederick?'
The head-waiter's eye rested upon the young man with a new interest and respect.
'He is noble?' he inquired with awe.
'He is here strictly incognito, you understand,' said Psmith warningly. The head-waiter nodded.
The young man meanwhile had broken down the cat's reserve, and was now standing with her in his arms, apparently anxious to fight all-comers in her defence. The head-waiter approached deferentially.
'Der gendleman,' he said, indicating Psmith, who beamed in a friendly manner through his eye-glass, 'haf everything exblained. All will now quite satisfactory be.'
The young man looked inquiringly at Psmith, who winked encouragingly. The head-waiter bowed.
'Let me present Comrade Jackson,' said Psmith, 'the pet of our English Smart Set. I am Psmith, one of the Shropshire Psmiths. This is a great moment. Shall we be moving back? We were about to order a second instalment of coffee, to correct the effects of a fatiguing day. Perhaps you would care to join us?'
