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Mike: A Public School Story

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<h3 class="chap"> CHAPTER XLIX A CHECK</h3> The only two members of the house not out in the grounds when he arrived were Mike and Psmith.  They were standing on the gravel drive in front of the boys’ entrance.  Mike had a deck-chair in one hand and a book in the other.  Psmith—for even the greatest minds will sometimes unbend—was playing diabolo.  That is to say, he was trying without success to raise the spool from the ground. “There’s a kid in France,” said Mike disparagingly, as the bobbin rolled off the string for the fourth time, “who can do it three thousand seven hundred and something times.” Psmith smoothed a crease out of his waistcoat and tried again.  He had just succeeded in getting the thing to spin when Mr. Downing arrived.  The sound of his footsteps disturbed Psmith and brought the effort to nothing. “Enough of this spoolery,” said he, flinging the sticks through the open window of the senior day-room.  “I was an ass ever to try it.  The philosophical mind needs complete repose in its hours of leisure.  Hullo!” He stared after the sleuth-hound, who had just entered the house. “What the dickens,” said Mike, “does he mean by barging in as if he’d bought the place?” “Comrade Downing looks pleased with himself.  What brings him round in this direction, I wonder!  Still, no matter.  The few articles which he may sneak from our study are of inconsiderable value.  He is welcome to them.  Do you feel inclined to wait awhile till I have fetched a chair and book?” “I’ll be going on.  I shall be under the trees at the far end of the ground.” “’Tis well.  I will be with you in about two ticks.” Mike walked on towards the field, and Psmith, strolling upstairs to fetch his novel, found Mr. Downing standing in the passage with the air of one who has lost his bearings. “A warm afternoon, sir,” murmured Psmith courteously, as he passed. “Er—Smith!” “Sir?” “I—er—wish to go round the dormitories.” It was Psmith’s guiding rule in life never to be surprised at anything, so he merely inclined his head gracefully, and said nothing. “I should be glad if you would fetch the keys and show me where the rooms are.” “With acute pleasure, sir,” said Psmith.  “Or shall I fetch Mr. Outwood, sir?” “Do as I tell you, Smith,” snapped Mr. Downing. Psmith said no more, but went down to the matron’s room.  The matron being out, he abstracted the bunch of keys from her table and rejoined the master. “Shall I lead the way, sir?” he asked. Mr. Downing nodded. “Here, sir,” said Psmith, opening a door, “we have Barnes’ dormitory.  An airy room, constructed on the soundest hygienic principles.  Each boy, I understand, has quite a considerable number of cubic feet of air all to himself.  It is Mr. Outwood’s boast that no boy has ever asked for a cubic foot of air in vain.  He argues justly——” He broke off abruptly and began to watch the other’s manoeuvres in silence.  Mr. Downing was peering rapidly beneath each bed in turn. “Are you looking for Barnes, sir?” inquired Psmith politely.  “I think he’s out in the field.” Mr. Downing rose, having examined the last bed, crimson in the face with the exercise. “Show me the next dormitory, Smith,” he said, panting slightly. “This,” said Psmith, opening the next door and sinking his voice to an awed whisper, “is where I sleep!” Mr. Downing glanced swiftly beneath the three beds.  “Excuse me, sir,” said Psmith, “but are we chasing anything?” “Be good enough, Smith,” said Mr. Downing with asperity, “to keep your remarks to yourself.” “I was only wondering, sir.  Shall I show you the next in order?” “Certainly.” They moved on up the passage. Drawing blank at the last dormitory, Mr. Downing paused, baffled.  Psmith waited patiently by.  An idea struck the master. “The studies, Smith,” he cried. “Aha!” said Psmith.  “I beg your pardon, sir.  The observation escaped me unawares.  The frenzy of the chase is beginning to enter into my blood.  Here we have——” Mr. Downing stopped short. “Is this impertinence studied, Smith?” “Ferguson’s study, sir?  No, sir.  That’s further down the passage.  This is Barnes’.” Mr. Downing looked at him closely.  Psmith’s face was wooden in its gravity.  The master snorted suspiciously, then moved on. “Whose is this?” he asked, rapping a door. “This, sir, is mine and Jackson’s.” “What!  Have you a study?  You are low down in the school for it.” “I think, sir, that Mr. Outwood gave it us rather as a testimonial to our general worth than to our proficiency in school-work.” Mr. Downing raked the room with a keen eye.  The absence of bars from the window attracted his attention. “Have you no bars to your windows here, such as there are in my house?” “There appears to be no bar, sir,” said Psmith, putting up his eyeglass. Mr Downing was leaning out of the window. “A lovely view, is it not, sir?” said Psmith.  “The trees, the field, the distant hills——” Mr. Downing suddenly started.  His eye had been caught by the water-pipe at the side of the window.  The boy whom Sergeant Collard had seen climbing the pipe must have been making for this study. He spun round and met Psmith’s blandly inquiring gaze.  He looked at Psmith carefully for a moment.  No.  The boy he had chased last night had not been Psmith.  That exquisite’s figure and general appearance were unmistakable, even in the dusk. “Whom did you say you shared this study with, Smith?” “Jackson, sir.  The cricketer.” “Never mind about his cricket, Smith,” said Mr. Downing with irritation. “No, sir.” “He is the only other occupant of the room?” “Yes, sir.” “Nobody else comes into it?” “If they do, they go out extremely quickly, sir.” “Ah!  Thank you, Smith.” “Not at all, sir.” Mr. Downing pondered.  Jackson!  The boy bore him a grudge.  The boy was precisely the sort of boy to revenge himself by painting the dog Sammy.  And, gadzooks!  The boy whom he had pursued last night had been just about Jackson’s size and build! Mr. Downing was as firmly convinced at that moment that Mike’s had been the hand to wield the paint-brush as he had ever been of anything in his life. “Smith!” he said excitedly. “On the spot, sir,” said Psmith affably. “Where are Jackson’s boots?” There are moments when the giddy excitement of being right on the trail causes the amateur (or Watsonian) detective to be incautious.  Such a moment came to Mr. Downing then.  If he had been wise, he would have achieved his object, the getting a glimpse of Mike’s boots, by a devious and snaky route.  As it was, he rushed straight on. “His boots, sir?  He has them on.  I noticed them as he went out just now.” “Where is the pair he wore yesterday?” “Where are the boots of yester-year?” murmured Psmith to himself.  “I should say at a venture, sir, that they would be in the basket downstairs.  Edmund, our genial knife-and-boot boy, collects them, I believe, at early dawn.” “Would they have been cleaned yet?” “If I know Edmund, sir—no.” “Smith,” said Mr. Downing, trembling with excitement, “go and bring that basket to me here.” Psmith’s brain was working rapidly as he went downstairs.  What exactly was at the back of the sleuth’s mind, prompting these manoeuvres, he did not know.  But that there was something, and that that something was directed in a hostile manner against Mike, probably in connection with last night’s wild happenings, he was certain.  Psmith had noticed, on leaving his bed at the sound of the alarm bell, that he and Jellicoe were alone in the room.  That might mean that Mike had gone out through the door when the bell sounded, or it might mean that he had been out all the time.  It began to look as if the latter solution were the correct one. <hr width="30%" align="center"> He staggered back with the basket, painfully conscious the while that it was creasing his waistcoat, and dumped it down on the study floor.  Mr. Downing stooped eagerly over it.  Psmith leaned against the wall, and straightened out the damaged garment. “We have here, sir,” he said, “a fair selection of our various bootings.” Mr. Downing looked up. “You dropped none of the boots on your way up, Smith?” “Not one, sir.  It was a fine performance.” Mr. Downing uttered a grunt of satisfaction, and bent once more to his task.  Boots flew about the room.  Mr. Downing knelt on the floor beside the basket, and dug like a terrier at a rat-hole. At last he made a dive, and, with an exclamation of triumph, rose to his feet.  In his hand he held a boot. “Put those back again, Smith,” he said. The ex-Etonian, wearing an expression such as a martyr might have worn on being told off for the stake, began to pick up the scattered footgear, whistling softly the tune of “I do all the dirty work,” as he did so. “That’s the lot, sir,” he said, rising. “Ah.  Now come across with me to the headmaster’s house.  Leave the basket here.  You can carry it back when you return.” “Shall I put back that boot, sir?” “Certainly not.  I shall take this with me, of course.” “Shall I carry it, sir?” Mr. Downing reflected. “Yes, Smith,” he said.  “I think it would be best.” It occurred to him that the spectacle of a housemaster wandering abroad on the public highway, carrying a dirty boot, might be a trifle undignified.  You never knew whom you might meet on Sunday afternoon. Psmith took the boot, and doing so, understood what before had puzzled him. Across the toe of the boot was a broad splash of red paint. He knew nothing, of course, of the upset tin in the bicycle shed; but when a housemaster’s dog has been painted red in the night, and when, on the following day, the housemaster goes about in search of a paint-splashed boot, one puts two and two together.  Psmith looked at the name inside the boot.  It was “Brown, boot-maker, Bridgnorth.”  Bridgnorth was only a few miles from his own home and Mike’s.  Undoubtedly it was Mike’s boot. “Can you tell me whose boot that is?” asked Mr. Downing. Psmith looked at it again. “No, sir.  I can’t say the little chap’s familiar to me.” “Come with me, then.” Mr. Downing left the room.  After a moment Psmith followed him. The headmaster was in his garden.  Thither Mr. Downing made his way, the boot-bearing Psmith in close attendance. The Head listened to the amateur detective’s statement with interest. “Indeed?” he said, when Mr. Downing had finished. “Indeed?  Dear me!  It certainly seems—It is a curiously well-connected thread of evidence.  You are certain that there was red paint on this boot you discovered in Mr. Outwood’s house?” “I have it with me.  I brought it on purpose to show to you.  Smith!” “Sir?” “You have the boot?” “Ah,” said the headmaster, putting on a pair of pince-nez, “now let me look at—This, you say, is the—?  Just so.  Just so.  Just....  But, er, Mr. Downing, it may be that I have not examined this boot with sufficient care, but—Can you point out to me exactly where this paint is that you speak of?” Mr. Downing stood staring at the boot with a wild, fixed stare.  Of any suspicion of paint, red or otherwise, it was absolutely and entirely innocent. <h3 class="chap"> CHAPTER L THE DESTROYER OF EVIDENCE</h3> The boot became the centre of attraction, the cynosure of all eyes.  Mr. Downing fixed it with the piercing stare of one who feels that his brain is tottering.  The headmaster looked at it with a mildly puzzled expression.  Psmith, putting up his eyeglass, gazed at it with a sort of affectionate interest, as if he were waiting for it to do a trick of some kind. Mr. Downing was the first to break the silence. “There was paint on this boot,” he said vehemently.  “I tell you there was a splash of red paint across the toe.  Smith will bear me out in this.  Smith, you saw the paint on this boot?” “Paint, sir!” “What!  Do you mean to tell me that you did not see it?” “No, sir.  There was no paint on this boot.” “This is foolery.  I saw it with my own eyes.  It was a broad splash right across the toe.” The headmaster interposed. “You must have made a mistake, Mr. Downing.  There is certainly no trace of paint on this boot.  These momentary optical delusions are, I fancy, not uncommon.  Any doctor will tell you——” “I had an aunt, sir,” said Psmith chattily, “who was remarkably subject——” “It is absurd.  I cannot have been mistaken,” said Mr. Downing.  “I am positively certain the toe of this boot was red when I found it.” “It is undoubtedly black now, Mr. Downing.” “A sort of chameleon boot,” murmured Psmith. The goaded housemaster turned on him. “What did you say, Smith?” “Did I speak, sir?” said Psmith, with the start of one coming suddenly out of a trance. Mr. Downing looked searchingly at him. “You had better be careful, Smith.” “Yes, sir.” “I strongly suspect you of having something to do with this.” “Really, Mr. Downing,” said the headmaster, “that is surely improbable.  Smith could scarcely have cleaned the boot on his way to my house.  On one occasion I inadvertently spilt some paint on a shoe of my own.  I can assure you that it does not brush off.  It needs a very systematic cleaning before all traces are removed.” “Exactly, sir,” said Psmith.  “My theory, if I may——?” “Certainly, Smith.” Psmith bowed courteously and proceeded. “My theory, sir, is that Mr. Downing was deceived by the light and shade effects on the toe of the boot.  The afternoon sun, streaming in through the window, must have shone on the boot in such a manner as to give it a momentary and fictitious aspect of redness.  If Mr. Downing recollects, he did not look long at the boot.  The picture on the retina of the eye, consequently, had not time to fade.  I remember thinking myself, at the moment, that the boot appeared to have a certain reddish tint.  The mistake——” “Bah!” said Mr. Downing shortly. “Well, really,” said the headmaster, “it seems to me that that is the only explanation that will square with the facts.  A boot that is really smeared with red paint does not become black of itself in the course of a few minutes.” “You are very right, sir,” said Psmith with benevolent approval.  “May I go now, sir?  I am in the middle of a singularly impressive passage of Cicero’s speech De Senectute.” “I am sorry that you should leave your preparation till Sunday, Smith.  It is a habit of which I altogether disapprove.” “I am reading it, sir,” said Psmith, with simple dignity, “for pleasure.  Shall I take the boot with me, sir?” “If Mr. Downing does not want it?” The housemaster passed the fraudulent piece of evidence to Psmith without a word, and the latter, having included both masters in a kindly smile, left the garden. Pedestrians who had the good fortune to be passing along the road between the housemaster’s house and Mr. Outwood’s at that moment saw what, if they had but known it, was a most unusual sight, the spectacle of Psmith running.  Psmith’s usual mode of progression was a dignified walk.  He believed in the contemplative style rather than the hustling. On this occasion, however, reckless of possible injuries to the crease of his trousers, he raced down the road, and turning in at Outwood’s gate, bounded upstairs like a highly trained professional athlete. On arriving at the study, his first act was to remove a boot from the top of the pile in the basket, place it in the small cupboard under the bookshelf, and lock the cupboard.  Then he flung himself into a chair and panted. “Brain,” he said to himself approvingly, “is what one chiefly needs in matters of this kind.  Without brain, where are we?  In the soup, every time.  The next development will be when Comrade Downing thinks it over, and is struck with the brilliant idea that it’s just possible that the boot he gave me to carry and the boot I did carry were not one boot but two boots.  Meanwhile——” He dragged up another chair for his feet and picked up his novel. He had not been reading long when there was a footstep in the passage, and Mr. Downing appeared. The possibility, in fact the probability, of Psmith having substituted another boot for the one with the incriminating splash of paint on it had occurred to him almost immediately on leaving the headmaster’s garden.  Psmith and Mike, he reflected, were friends.  Psmith’s impulse would be to do all that lay in his power to shield Mike.  Feeling aggrieved with himself that he had not thought of this before, he, too, hurried over to Outwood’s. Mr. Downing was brisk and peremptory. “I wish to look at these boots again,” he said.  Psmith, with a sigh, laid down his novel, and rose to assist him. “Sit down, Smith,” said the housemaster.  “I can manage without your help.” Psmith sat down again, carefully tucking up the knees of his trousers, and watched him with silent interest through his eyeglass. The scrutiny irritated Mr. Downing. “Put that thing away, Smith,” he said. “That thing, sir?” “Yes, that ridiculous glass.  Put it away.” “Why, sir?” “Why!  Because I tell you to do so.” “I guessed that that was the reason, sir,” sighed Psmith replacing the eyeglass in his waistcoat pocket.  He rested his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands, and resumed his contemplative inspection of the boot-expert, who, after fidgeting for a few moments, lodged another complaint. “Don’t sit there staring at me, Smith.” “I was interested in what you were doing, sir.” “Never mind.  Don’t stare at me in that idiotic way.” “May I read, sir?” asked Psmith, patiently. “Yes, read if you like.” “Thank you, sir.” Psmith took up his book again, and Mr. Downing, now thoroughly irritated, pursued his investigations in the boot-basket. He went through it twice, but each time without success.  After the second search, he stood up, and looked wildly round the room.  He was as certain as he could be of anything that the missing piece of evidence was somewhere in the study.  It was no use asking Psmith point-blank where it was, for Psmith’s ability to parry dangerous questions with evasive answers was quite out of the common. His eye roamed about the room.  There was very little cover there, even for so small a fugitive as a number nine boot.  The floor could be acquitted, on sight, of harbouring the quarry. Then he caught sight of the cupboard, and something seemed to tell him that there was the place to look. “Smith!” he said. Psmith had been reading placidly all the while. “Yes, sir?” “What is in this cupboard?” “That cupboard, sir?” “Yes.  This cupboard.”  Mr. Downing rapped the door irritably. “Just a few odd trifles, sir.  We do not often use it.  A ball of string, perhaps.  Possibly an old note-book.  Nothing of value or interest.” “Open it.” “I think you will find that it is locked, sir.” “Unlock it.” “But where is the key, sir?” “Have you not got the key?” “If the key is not in the lock, sir, you may depend upon it that it will take a long search to find it.” “Where did you see it last?” “It was in the lock yesterday morning.  Jackson might have taken it.” “Where is Jackson?” “Out in the field somewhere, sir.” Mr. Downing thought for a moment. “I don’t believe a word of it,” he said shortly.  “I have my reasons for thinking that you are deliberately keeping the contents of that cupboard from me.  I shall break open the door.” Psmith got up. “I’m afraid you mustn’t do that, sir.” Mr. Downing stared, amazed. “Are you aware whom you are talking to, Smith?” he inquired acidly. “Yes, sir.  And I know it’s not Mr. Outwood, to whom that cupboard happens to belong.  If you wish to break it open, you must get his permission.  He is the sole lessee and proprietor of that cupboard.  I am only the acting manager.” Mr. Downing paused.  He also reflected.  Mr. Outwood in the general rule did not count much in the scheme of things, but possibly there were limits to the treating of him as if he did not exist.  To enter his house without his permission and search it to a certain extent was all very well.  But when it came to breaking up his furniture, perhaps——! On the other hand, there was the maddening thought that if he left the study in search of Mr. Outwood, in order to obtain his sanction for the house-breaking work which he proposed to carry through, Smith would be alone in the room.  And he knew that, if Smith were left alone in the room, he would instantly remove the boot to some other hiding-place.  He thoroughly disbelieved the story of the lost key.  He was perfectly convinced that the missing boot was in the cupboard. He stood chewing these thoughts for awhile, Psmith in the meantime standing in a graceful attitude in front of the cupboard, staring into vacancy. Then he was seized with a happy idea.  Why should he leave the room at all?  If he sent Smith, then he himself could wait and make certain that the cupboard was not tampered with. “Smith,” he said, “go and find Mr. Outwood, and ask him to be good enough to come here for a moment.” <h3 class="chap"> CHAPTER LI MAINLY ABOUT BOOTS</h3> “Be quick, Smith,” he said, as the latter stood looking at him without making any movement in the direction of the door. “Quick, sir?” said Psmith meditatively, as if he had been asked a conundrum. “Go and find Mr. Outwood at once.” Psmith still made no move. “Do you intend to disobey me, Smith?” Mr. Downing’s voice was steely. “Yes, sir.” “What!” “Yes, sir.” There was one of those you-could-have-heard-a-pin-drop silences.  Psmith was staring reflectively at the ceiling.  Mr. Downing was looking as if at any moment he might say, “Thwarted to me face, ha, ha!  And by a very stripling!” It was Psmith, however, who resumed the conversation.  His manner was almost too respectful; which made it all the more a pity that what he said did not keep up the standard of docility. “I take my stand,” he said, “on a technical point.  I say to myself, ’Mr. Downing is a man I admire as a human being and respect as a master.  In——’” “This impertinence is doing you no good, Smith.” Psmith waved a hand deprecatingly. “If you will let me explain, sir.  I was about to say that in any other place but Mr. Outwood’s house, your word would be law.  I would fly to do your bidding.  If you pressed a button, I would do the rest.  But in Mr. Outwood’s house I cannot do anything except what pleases me or what is ordered by Mr. Outwood.  I ought to have remembered that before.  One cannot,” he continued, as who should say, “Let us be reasonable,” “one cannot, to take a parallel case, imagine the colonel commanding the garrison at a naval station going on board a battleship and ordering the crew to splice the jibboom spanker.  It might be an admirable thing for the Empire that the jibboom spanker should be spliced at that particular juncture, but the crew would naturally decline to move in the matter until the order came from the commander of the ship.  So in my case.  If you will go to Mr. Outwood, and explain to him how matters stand, and come back and say to me, ’Psmith, Mr. Outwood wishes you to ask him to be good enough to come to this study,’ then I shall be only too glad to go and find him.  You see my difficulty, sir?” “Go and fetch Mr. Outwood, Smith.  I shall not tell you again.” Psmith flicked a speck of dust from his coat-sleeve. “Very well, Smith.” “I can assure you, sir, at any rate, that if there is a boot in that cupboard now, there will be a boot there when you return.” Mr. Downing stalked out of the room. “But,” added Psmith pensively to himself, as the footsteps died away, “I did not promise that it would be the same boot.” He took the key from his pocket, unlocked the cupboard, and took out the boot.  Then he selected from the basket a particularly battered specimen.  Placing this in the cupboard, he re-locked the door. His next act was to take from the shelf a piece of string.  Attaching one end of this to the boot that he had taken from the cupboard, he went to the window.  His first act was to fling the cupboard-key out into the bushes.  Then he turned to the boot.  On a level with the sill the water-pipe, up which Mike had started to climb the night before, was fastened to the wall by an iron band.  He tied the other end of the string to this, and let the boot swing free.  He noticed with approval, when it had stopped swinging, that it was hidden from above by the window-sill. He returned to his place at the mantelpiece. As an after-thought he took another boot from the basket, and thrust it up the chimney.  A shower of soot fell into the grate, blackening his hand. The bathroom was a few yards down the corridor.  He went there, and washed off the soot. When he returned, Mr. Downing was in the study, and with him Mr. Outwood, the latter looking dazed, as if he were not quite equal to the intellectual pressure of the situation. “Where have you been, Smith?” asked Mr. Downing sharply. “I have been washing my hands, sir.” “H’m!” said Mr. Downing suspiciously. “Yes, I saw Smith go into the bathroom,” said Mr. Outwood.  “Smith, I cannot quite understand what it is Mr. Downing wishes me to do.” “My dear Outwood,” snapped the sleuth, “I thought I had made it perfectly clear.  Where is the difficulty?” “I cannot understand why you should suspect Smith of keeping his boots in a cupboard, and,” added Mr. Outwood with spirit, catching sight of a Good-Gracious-has-the-man-no-sense look on the other’s face,” why he should not do so if he wishes it.” “Exactly, sir,” said Psmith, approvingly.  “You have touched the spot.” “If I must explain again, my dear Outwood, will you kindly give me your attention for a moment.  Last night a boy broke out of your house, and painted my dog Sampson red.” “He painted—!” said Mr. Outwood, round-eyed.  “Why?” “I don’t know why.  At any rate, he did.  During the escapade one of his boots was splashed with the paint.  It is that boot which I believe Smith to be concealing in this cupboard.  Now, do you understand?” Mr. Outwood looked amazedly at Smith, and Psmith shook his head sorrowfully at Mr. Outwood.  Psmith’a expression said, as plainly as if he had spoken the words, “We must humour him.” “So with your permission, as Smith declares that he has lost the key, I propose to break open the door of this cupboard.  Have you any objection?” Mr. Outwood started. “Objection?  None at all, my dear fellow, none at all.  Let me see, what is it you wish to do?” “This,” said Mr. Downing shortly. There was a pair of dumb-bells on the floor, belonging to Mike.  He never used them, but they always managed to get themselves packed with the rest of his belongings on the last day of the holidays.  Mr. Downing seized one of these, and delivered two rapid blows at the cupboard-door.  The wood splintered.  A third blow smashed the flimsy lock.  The cupboard, with any skeletons it might contain, was open for all to view. Mr. Downing uttered a cry of triumph, and tore the boot from its resting-place. “I told you,” he said.  “I told you.” “I wondered where that boot had got to,” said Psmith.  “I’ve been looking for it for days.” Mr. Downing was examining his find.  He looked up with an exclamation of surprise and wrath. “This boot has no paint on it,” he said, glaring at Psmith.  “This is not the boot.” “It certainly appears, sir,” said Psmith sympathetically, “to be free from paint.  There’s a sort of reddish glow just there, if you look at it sideways,” he added helpfully. “Did you place that boot there, Smith?” “I must have done.  Then, when I lost the key——” “Are you satisfied now, Downing?” interrupted Mr. Outwood with asperity, “or is there any more furniture you wish to break?” The excitement of seeing his household goods smashed with a dumb-bell had made the archaeological student quite a swashbuckler for the moment.  A little more, and one could imagine him giving Mr. Downing a good, hard knock. The sleuth-hound stood still for a moment, baffled.  But his brain was working with the rapidity of a buzz-saw.  A chance remark of Mr. Outwood’s set him fizzing off on the trail once more.  Mr. Outwood had caught sight of the little pile of soot in the grate.  He bent down to inspect it. “Dear me,” he said, “I must remember to have the chimneys swept.  It should have been done before.” Mr. Downing’s eye, rolling in a fine frenzy from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, also focussed itself on the pile of soot; and a thrill went through him.  Soot in the fireplace!  Smith washing his hands! ("You know my methods, my dear Watson.  Apply them.”) Mr. Downing’s mind at that moment contained one single thought; and that thought was “What ho for the chimney!” He dived forward with a rush, nearly knocking Mr. Outwood off his feet, and thrust an arm up into the unknown.  An avalanche of soot fell upon his hand and wrist, but he ignored it, for at the same instant his fingers had closed upon what he was seeking. “Ah,” he said.  “I thought as much.  You were not quite clever enough, after all, Smith.” “No, sir,” said Psmith patiently.  “We all make mistakes.” “You would have done better, Smith, not to have given me all this trouble.  You have done yourself no good by it.” “It’s been great fun, though, sir,” argued Psmith. “Fun!” Mr. Downing laughed grimly.  “You may have reason to change your opinion of what constitutes——” His voice failed as his eye fell on the all-black toe of the boot.  He looked up, and caught Psmith’s benevolent gaze.  He straightened himself and brushed a bead of perspiration from his face with the back of his hand.  Unfortunately, he used the sooty hand, and the result was like some gruesome burlesque of a nigger minstrel. “Did—you—put—that—boot—there, Smith?” he asked slowly. <center> <ANTIMG src="images/jmike11.jpg" alt="“DID—YOU—PUT—THAT—BOOT—THERE, SMITH?”"></center> “Yes, sir.” “Then what did you MEAN by putting it there?” roared Mr. Downing. “Animal spirits, sir,” said Psmith. “WHAT!” “Animal spirits, sir.” What Mr. Downing would have replied to this one cannot tell, though one can guess roughly.  For, just as he was opening his mouth, Mr. Outwood, catching sight of his Chirgwin-like countenance, intervened. “My dear Downing,” he said, “your face.  It is positively covered with soot, positively.  You must come and wash it.  You are quite black.  Really, you present a most curious appearance, most.  Let me show you the way to my room.” In all times of storm and tribulation there comes a breaking-point, a point where the spirit definitely refuses to battle any longer against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  Mr. Downing could not bear up against this crowning blow.  He went down beneath it.  In the language of the Ring, he took the count.  It was the knock-out. “Soot!” he murmured weakly.  “Soot!” “Your face is covered, my dear fellow, quite covered.” “It certainly has a faintly sooty aspect, sir,” said Psmith. His voice roused the sufferer to one last flicker of spirit. “You will hear more of this, Smith,” he said.  “I say you will hear more of it.” Then he allowed Mr. Outwood to lead him out to a place where there were towels, soap, and sponges. <hr width="30%" align="center"> When they had gone, Psmith went to the window, and hauled in the string.  He felt the calm after-glow which comes to the general after a successfully conducted battle.  It had been trying, of course, for a man of refinement, and it had cut into his afternoon, but on the whole it had been worth it. The problem now was what to do with the painted boot.  It would take a lot of cleaning, he saw, even if he could get hold of the necessary implements for cleaning it.  And he rather doubted if he would be able to do so.  Edmund, the boot-boy, worked in some mysterious cell, far from the madding crowd, at the back of the house.  In the boot-cupboard downstairs there would probably be nothing likely to be of any use. His fears were realised.  The boot-cupboard was empty.  It seemed to him that, for the time being, the best thing he could do would be to place the boot in safe hiding, until he should have thought out a scheme. Having restored the basket to its proper place, accordingly, he went up to the study again, and placed the red-toed boot in the chimney, at about the same height where Mr. Downing had found the other.  Nobody would think of looking there a second time, and it was improbable that Mr. Outwood really would have the chimneys swept, as he had said.  The odds were that he had forgotten about it already. Psmith went to the bathroom to wash his hands again, with the feeling that he had done a good day’s work. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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