Mike and Psmith Read online

  Produced by Christine Gehring, Ginny Brewer and PG DistributedProofreaders

  MIKE AND PSMITH

  By P.G. WODEHOUSE

  MEREDITH PRESS / NEW YORK

  Copyright 1909 by A. & C. Black

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  1. MR. JACKSON MAKES UP HIS MIND 2. SEDLEIGH 3. PSMITH 4. STAKING OUT A CLAIM 5. GUERRILLA WARFARE 6. UNPLEASANTNESS IN THE SMALL HOURS 7. ADAIR 8. MIKE FINDS OCCUPATION 9. THE FIRE BRIGADE MEETING 10. ACHILLES LEAVES HIS TENT 11. THE MATCH WITH DOWNING'S 12. THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOR OF JELLICOE 13. JELLICOE GOES ON THE SICK LIST 14. MIKE RECEIVES A COMMISSION 15. ... AND FULFILLS IT 16. PURSUIT 17. THE DECORATION OF SAMMY 18. MR. DOWNING ON THE SCENT 19. THE SLEUTH-HOUND 20. A CHECK 21. THE DESTROYER OF EVIDENCE 22. MAINLY ABOUT SHOES 23. ON THE TRAIL AGAIN 24. THE ADAIR METHOD 25. ADAIR HAS A WORD WITH MIKE 26. CLEARING THE AIR 27. IN WHICH PEACE IS DECLARED 28. MR. DOWNING MOVES 29. THE ARTIST CLAIMS HIS WORK 30. SEDLEIGH V. WRYKYN

  PREFACE

  In Evelyn Waugh's book _Decline and Fall_ his hero, applying for a postas a schoolmaster, is told by the agent, "We class schools in fourgrades--leading school, first-rate school, good school, and school."Sedleigh in Mike and Psmith would, I suppose, come into the last-namedclass, though not quite as low in it as Mr. Waugh's Llanabba. It is oneof those small English schools with aspirations one day to be able toput the word "public" before their name and to have their headmasterqualified to attend the annual Headmaster's Conference. All it needs isa few more Adairs to get things going. And there is this to be noted,that even at a "school" one gets an excellent education. Its onlydrawback is that it does not play the leading schools or the first-rateschools or even the good schools at cricket. But to Mike, fresh fromWrykyn (a "first-rate school") and Psmith, coming from Eton (a "leadingschool") Sedleigh naturally seemed something of a comedown. It took Mikesome time to adjust himself to it, though Psmith, the philosopher,accepted the change of conditions with his customary equanimity.

  This was the first appearance of Psmith. He came into two other books,_Psmith in the City_ and _Psmith, Journalist_, before becoming happilymarried in _Leave It to Psmith_, but I have always thought that he wasmost at home in this story of English school life. To give full play tohis bland clashings with Authority he needs to have authority to clashwith, and there is none more absolute than that of the masters at anEnglish school.

  Psmith has the distinction of being the only one of my numerouscharacters to be drawn from a living model. A cousin of mine was at Etonwith the son of D'Oyly Carte, the man who produced the Gilbert andSullivan operettas, and one night he told me about this peculiarschoolboy who dressed fastidiously and wore a monocle and who, when oneof the masters inquired after his health, replied "Sir, I grow thinnahand thinnah." It was all the information I required in order to startbuilding him in a star part.

  If anyone is curious as to what became of Mike and Psmith in later life,I can supply the facts. Mike, always devoted to country life, ran aprosperous farm. Psmith, inevitably perhaps, became an equallyprosperous counselor at the bar like Perry Mason, specializing, likePerry, in appearing for the defense.

  I must apologize, as I did in the preface to _Mike at Wrykyn,_ for allthe cricket in this book. It was unavoidable. There is, however, notquite so much of it this time.

  P.G. Wodehouse.

  1

  MR. JACKSON MAKES UP HIS MIND

  If Mike had been in time for breakfast that fatal Easter morning hemight have gathered from the expression on his father's face, as Mr.Jackson opened the envelope containing his school report and read thecontents, that the document in question was not exactly a paean ofpraise from beginning to end. But he was late, as usual. Mike always waslate for breakfast in the holidays.

  When he came down on this particular morning, the meal was nearly over.Mr. Jackson had disappeared, taking his correspondence with him; Mrs.Jackson had gone into the kitchen, and when Mike appeared the thing hadresolved itself into a mere vulgar brawl between Phyllis and Ella forthe jam, while Marjory, recently affecting a grown-up air, looked on ina detached sort of way, as if these juvenile gambols distressed her.

  "Hello, Mike," she said, jumping up as he entered, "here you are--I'vebeen keeping everything hot for you."

  "Have you? Thanks awfully. I say ..." His eye wandered in mild surpriseround the table. "I'm a bit late."

  Marjory was bustling about, fetching and carrying for Mike, as shealways did. She had adopted him at an early age, and did the thingthoroughly. She was fond of her other brothers, especially when theymade centuries in first-class cricket, but Mike was her favorite. Shewould field out in the deep as a natural thing when Mike was batting atthe net in the paddock, though for the others, even for Joe, who hadplayed in all five Test Matches in the previous summer, she would do itonly as a favor.

  Phyllis and Ella finished their dispute and went out. Marjory sat on thetable and watched Mike eat.

  "Your report came this morning, Mike," she said.

  The kidneys failed to retain Mike's undivided attention. He looked upinterested. "What did it say?"

  "I didn't see--I only caught sight of the Wrykyn crest on the envelope.Father didn't say anything."

  Mike seemed concerned. "I say, that looks rather rotten! I wonder if itwas awfully bad. It's the first I've had from Appleby."

  "It can't be any worse than the horrid ones Mr. Blake used to write whenyou were in his form."

  "No, that's a comfort," said Mike philosophically. "Think there's anymore tea in that pot?"

  "I call it a shame," said Marjory; "they ought to be jolly glad to haveyou at Wrykyn just for cricket, instead of writing beastly reports thatmake father angry and don't do any good to anybody."

  "Last Christmas he said he'd take me away if I got another one."

  "He didn't mean it really, I _know_ he didn't! He couldn't! You're thebest bat Wrykyn's ever had."

  "What ho!" interpolated Mike.

  "You _are_. Everybody says you are. Why, you got your first the veryfirst term you were there--even Joe didn't do anything nearly so good asthat. Saunders says you're simply bound to play for England in anotheryear or two."

  "Saunders is a jolly good chap. He bowled me a half volley on the offthe first ball I had in a school match. By the way, I wonder if he's outat the net now. Let's go and see."

  Saunders the professional was setting up the net when they arrived. Mikeput on his pads and went to the wicket, while Marjory and the dogsretired as usual to the far hedge to retrieve.

  She was kept busy. Saunders was a good sound bowler of the M.C.C. minormatch type, and there had been a time when he had worried Mikeconsiderably, but Mike had been in the Wrykyn team for three seasonsnow, and each season he had advanced tremendously in his batting. He hadfilled out in three years. He had always had the style, and now he hadthe strength as well, Saunder's bowling on a true wicket seemed simpleto him. It was early in the Easter holidays, but already he wasbeginning to find his form. Saunders, who looked on Mike as his ownspecial invention, was delighted.

  "If you don't be worried by being too anxious now that you're captain,Master Mike," he said, "you'll make a century every match next term."

  "I wish I wasn't; it's a beastly responsibility."

  Henfrey, the Wrykyn cricket captain of the previous season, was notreturning next term, and Mike was to reign in his stead. He liked theprospect, but it certainly carried with it a rather awe-inspiringresponsibility. At night sometimes he would lie awake, appalled by thefear of losing his form, or making a hash of things by choosing thewrong men to play for the school and leaving the right men out. It is nolight thing to captain a public school at cricket.

  As he was walking toward the house, Phyllis met hi
m. "Oh, I've beenhunting for you, Mike; Father wants you."

  "What for?"

  "I don't know."

  "Where?"

  "He's in the study. He seems ..." added Phyllis, throwing in theinformation by a way of a makeweight, "in a beastly temper."

  Mike's jaw fell slightly. "I hope the dickens it's nothing to do withthat bally report," was his muttered exclamation.

  Mike's dealings with his father were as a rule of a most pleasantnature. Mr. Jackson was an understanding sort of man, who treated hissons as companions. From time to time, however, breezes were apt toruffle the placid sea of good fellowship. Mike's end-of-term report wasan unfailing wind raiser; indeed, on the arrival of Mr. Blake'ssarcastic resume of Mike's shortcomings at the end of the previous term,there had been something not unlike a typhoon. It was on this occasionthat Mr. Jackson had solemnly declared his intention of removing Mikefrom Wrykyn unless the critics became more flattering; and Mr. Jacksonwas a man of his word.

  It was with a certain amount of apprehension, therefore, that Jacksonentered the study.

  "Come in, Mike," said his father, kicking the waste-paper basket; "Iwant to speak to you."

  Mike, skilled in omens, scented a row in the offing. Only in moments ofemotion was Mr. Jackson in the habit of booting the basket.

  There followed an awkward silence, which Mike broke by remarking that hehad carted a half volley from Saunders over the on-side hedgethat morning.

  "It was just a bit short and off the leg stump, so I stepped out--may Ibag the paper knife for a jiffy? I'll just show--"

  "Never mind about cricket now," said Mr. Jackson; "I want you to listento this report."

  "Oh, is that my report, Father?" said Mike, with a sort of sicklyinterest, much as a dog about to be washed might evince in his tub.

  "It is," replied Mr. Jackson in measured tones, "your report; what ismore, it is without exception the worst report you have ever had."

  "Oh, I say!" groaned the record-breaker.

  "'His conduct,'" quoted Mr. Jackson, "'has been unsatisfactory in theextreme, both in and out of school.'"

  "It wasn't anything really. I only happened--"

  Remembering suddenly that what he had happened to do was to drop acannonball (the school weight) on the form-room floor, not once, but onseveral occasions, he paused.

  "'French bad; conduct disgraceful--'"

  "Everybody rags in French."

  "'Mathematics bad. Inattentive and idle.'"

  "Nobody does much work in Math."

  "'Latin poor. Greek, very poor.'"

  "We were doing Thucydides, Book Two, last term--all speeches anddoubtful readings, and cruxes and things--beastly hard! Everybodysays so."

  "Here are Mr. Appleby's remarks: 'The boy has genuine ability, which hedeclines to use in the smallest degree.'"

  Mike moaned a moan of righteous indignation.

  "'An abnormal proficiency at games has apparently destroyed all desirein him to realize the more serious issues of life.' There is more to thesame effect."

  Mr. Appleby was a master with very definite ideas as to what constituteda public-school master's duties. As a man he was distinctly pro-Mike. Heunderstood cricket, and some of Mike's strokes on the off gave himthrills of pure aesthetic joy; but as a master he always made it hishabit to regard the manners and customs of the boys in his form with anunbiased eye, and to an unbiased eye Mike in a form room was about asnear the extreme edge as a boy could be, and Mr. Appleby said as much ina clear firm hand.

  "You remember what I said to you about your report at Christmas, Mike?"said Mr. Jackson, folding the lethal document and replacing it inits envelope.

  Mike said nothing; there was a sinking feeling in his interior.

  "I shall abide by what I said."

  Mike's heart thumped.

  "You will not go back to Wrykyn next term."

  Somewhere in the world the sun was shining, birds were twittering;somewhere in the world lambkins frisked and peasants sang blithely attheir toil (flat, perhaps, but still blithely), but to Mike at thatmoment the sky was black, and an icy wind blew over the face ofthe earth.

  The tragedy had happened, and there was an end of it. He made no attemptto appeal against the sentence. He knew it would be useless, his father,when he made up his mind, having all the unbending tenacity of thenormally easygoing man.

  Mr. Jackson was sorry for Mike. He understood him, and for that reasonhe said very little now.

  "I am sending you to Sedleigh," was his next remark.

  Sedleigh! Mike sat up with a jerk. He knew Sedleigh by name--one ofthose schools with about a hundred boys which you never hear of exceptwhen they send up their gym team to Aldershot, or their Eight to Bisley.Mike's outlook on life was that of a cricketer, pure and simple. Whathad Sedleigh ever done? What were they ever likely to do? Whom did theyplay? What Old Sedleighan had ever done anything at cricket? Perhapsthey didn't even _play_ cricket!

  "But it's an awful hole," he said blankly.

  Mr. Jackson could read Mike's mind like a book. Mike's point of view wasplain to him. He did not approve of it, but he knew that in Mike's placeand at Mike's age he would have felt the same. He spoke dryly to hidehis sympathy.

  "It is not a large school," he said, "and I don't suppose it could playWrykyn at cricket, but it has one merit--boys work there. Young Barlittwon a Balliol scholarship from Sedleigh last year." Barlitt was thevicar's son, a silent, spectacled youth who did not enter very largelyinto Mike's world. They had met occasionally at tennis parties, but notmuch conversation had ensued. Barlitt's mind was massive, but his topicsof conversation were not Mike's.

  "Mr. Barlitt speaks very highly of Sedleigh," added Mr. Jackson.

  Mike said nothing, which was a good deal better than saying what hewould have liked to have said.