Part 3 (1/2)

The very sound of the name Lower Benford was heartening. His dislike for his new school was not diminished, but now he felt that life there might at least be tolerable.

”Where were you before you came here?” asked Psmith. ”You have heard my painful story. Now tell me yours.”

”Wrykyn. My father took me away because I got such a lot of bad reports.”

”My reports from Eton were simply scurrilous. There's a libel action in every sentence. How do you like this place, from what you've seen of it?”

”Rotten.”

”I am with you, Comrade Jackson. You won't mind my calling you Comrade, will you? I've just become a socialist. It's a great scheme. You ought to be one. You work for the equal distribution of property, and start by collaring all you can and sitting on it. We must stick together. We are companions in misfortune. Lost lambs. Sheep that have gone astray.

Divided, we fall, together we may worry through. Have you seen Professor Radium yet? I should say Mr. Outwood. What do you think of him?”

”He doesn't seem a bad sort of chap. Bit off his nut. Jawed about apses and things.”

”And thereby,” said Psmith, ”hangs a tale. I've been making inquiries of a stout sportsman in a sort of Salvation Army uniform, whom I met in the grounds--he's the school sergeant or something, quite a solid man--and I hear that Comrade Outwood's an archaeological cove. Goes about the country beating up old ruins and fossils and things. There's an Archaeological Society in the school, run by him. It goes out on half-holidays, prowling about, and is allowed to break bounds and generally steep itself to the eyebrows in reckless devilry. And, mark you, laddie, if you belong to the Archaeological Society you get off cricket. To get off cricket,” said Psmith, dusting his right trouser leg, ”was the dream of my youth and the aspiration of my riper years. A n.o.ble game, but a bit too thick for me. At Eton I used to have to field out at the nets till the soles of my boots wore through. I suppose you are a blood at the game? Play for the school against Loams.h.i.+re, and so on.”

”I'm not going to play here, at any rate,” said Mike.

He had made up his mind on this point in the train. There is a certain fascination about making the very worst of a bad job. Achilles knew his business when he sat in his tent. The determination not to play cricket for Sedleigh as he could not play for Wrykyn gave Mike a sort of pleasure. To stand by with folded arms and a somber frown, as it were, was one way of treating the situation, and one not without its meed of comfort.

Psmith approved the resolve.

”Stout fellow,” he said. ”'Tis well. You and I, hand in hand, will search the countryside for ruined abbeys. We will snare the elusive fossil together. Above all, we will go out of bounds. We shall thus improve our minds, and have a jolly good time as well. I shouldn't wonder if one mightn't borrow a gun from some friendly native, and do a bit of rabbit shooting here and there. From what I saw of Comrade Outwood during our brief interview, I shouldn't think he was one of the lynx-eyed contingent. With tact we ought to be able to slip away from the merry throng of fossil chasers, and do a bit on our own account.”

”Good idea,” said Mike. ”We will. A chap at Wrykyn, called Wyatt, used to break out at night and shoot at cats with an air pistol.”

”It would take a lot to make me do that. I am all against anything that interferes with my sleep. But rabbits in the daytime is a scheme. We'll nose about for a gun at the earliest opp. Meanwhile we'd better go up to Comrade Outwood, and get our names shoved down for the Society.”

”I vote we get some tea first somewhere.”

”Then let's beat up a study. I suppose they have studies here. Let's go and look.”

They went upstairs. On the first floor there was a pa.s.sage with doors on either side. Psmith opened the first of these.

”This'll do us well,” he said.

It was a biggish room, looking out over the school grounds. There were a couple of deal tables, two empty bookcases, and a looking gla.s.s, hung on a nail.

”Might have been made for us,” said Psmith approvingly.

”I suppose it belongs to some rotter.”

”Not now.”

”You aren't going to collar it!”

”That,” said Psmith, looking at himself earnestly in the mirror, and straightening his tie, ”is the exact program. We must stake out our claims. This is practical socialism.”

”But the real owner's bound to turn up some time or other.”