Mike and Psmith
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THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOR OF JELLICOE
Outwood's rollicked considerably that night. Mike, if he had cared totake the part, could have been the Petted Hero. But a cordial invitationfrom the senior day room to be the guest of the evening at about thebiggest rag of the century had been refused on the plea of fatigue. Onedoes not make two hundred and seventy-seven runs on a hot day withoutfeeling the effects, even if one has scored mainly by the medium ofboundaries; and Mike, as he lay back in Psmith's deck chair, felt thatall he wanted was to go to bed and stay there for a week. His hands andarms burned as if they were red-hot, and his eyes were so tired that hecould not keep them open.
Psmith, leaning against the mantlepiece, discoursed in a desultory wayon the day's happenings--the score off Mr. Downing, the undeniableannoyance of that battered bowler, and the probability of his ventinghis annoyance on Mike next day.
"In theory," said he, "the manly what-d'you-call-it of cricket and allthat sort of thing ought to make him fall on your neck tomorrow and weepover you as a foeman worthy of his steel. But I am prepared to bet areasonable sum that he will give no jujitsu exhibition of this kind. Infact, from what I have seen of our bright little friend, I should saythat, in a small way, he will do his best to make it distinctly hot foryou, here and there."
"I don't care," murmured Mike, shifting his aching limbs in the chair.
"In an ordinary way, I suppose, a man can put up with having his bowlinghit a little. But your performance was cruelty to animals. Twenty-eightoff one over, not to mention three wides, would have made Job foam atthe mouth. You will probably get sacked. On the other hand, it's worthit. You have lit a candle this day which can never be blown out. Youhave shown the lads of the village how Comrade Downing's bowling oughtto be treated. I don't suppose he'll ever take another wicket."
"He doesn't deserve to."
Psmith smoothed his hair at the glass and turned round again.
"The only blot on this day of mirth and goodwill is," he said, "thesingular conduct of our friend Jellicoe. When all the place was ringingwith song and merriment, Comrade Jellicoe crept to my side, and,slipping his little hand in mine, touched me for three quid."
This interested Mike, tired as he was.
"What! Three quid!"
"Three crisp, crackling quid. He wanted four."
"But the man must be living at the rate of I don't know what. It wasonly yesterday that he borrowed a quid from _me_!"
"He must be saving money fast. There appear to be the makings of afinancier about Comrade Jellicoe. Well, I hope, when he's collectedenough for his needs, he'll pay me back a bit. I'm pretty wellcleaned out."
"I got some from my brother at Oxford."
"Perhaps he's saving up to get married. We may be helping towardfurnishing the home. There was a Siamese prince fellow at my dame's atEton who had four wives when he arrived, and gathered in a fifth duringhis first summer holidays. It was done on the correspondence system. HisPrime Minister fixed it up at the other end, and sent him the glad newson a picture post card. I think an eye ought to be kept on ComradeJellicoe."
* * * * *
Mike tumbled into bed that night like a log, but he could not sleep. Heached all over. Psmith chatted for a time on human affairs in general,and then dropped gently off. Jellicoe, who appeared to be wrapped ingloom, contributed nothing to the conversation.
After Psmith had gone to sleep, Mike lay for some time running over inhis mind, as the best substitute for sleep, the various points of hisinnings that day. He felt very hot and uncomfortable.
Just as he was wondering whether it would not be a good idea to get upand have a cold bath, a voice spoke from the darkness at his side.
"Are you asleep, Jackson?"
"Who's that?"
"Me--Jellicoe. I can't get to sleep."
"Nor can I. I'm stiff all over."
"I'll come over and sit on your bed."
There was a creaking, and then a weight descended in the neighborhood ofMike's toes.
Jellicoe was apparently not in conversational mood. He uttered no wordfor quite three minutes. At the end of which time he gave a sound midwaybetween a snort and a sigh.
"I say, Jackson!" he said.
"Yes?"
"Have you--oh, nothing."
Silence again.
"Jackson."
"Hello?"
"I say, what would your people say if you got sacked?"
"All sorts of things. Especially my father. Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. So would mine."
"Everybody's would, I expect."
"Yes."
The bed creaked, as Jellicoe digested these great thoughts. Then hespoke again.
"It would be a jolly beastly thing to get sacked."
Mike was too tired to give his mind to the subject. He was not reallylistening. Jellicoe droned on in a depressed sort of way.
"You'd get home in the middle of the afternoon, I suppose, and you'ddrive up to the house, and the servant would open the door, and you'd goin. They might all be out, and then you'd have to hang about, and wait;and presently you'd hear them come in, and you'd go out into thepassage, and they'd say 'Hello!'"
Jellicoe, in order to give verisimilitude, as it were, to an otherwisebald and unconvincing narrative, flung so much agitated surprise intothe last word that it woke Mike from a troubled doze into which hehad fallen.
"Hello?" he said. "What's up?"
"Then you'd say, 'Hello!' And then they'd say, 'What are you doinghere?' And you'd say--"
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"About what would happen."
"Happen when?"
"When you got home. After being sacked, you know."
"Who's been sacked?" Mike's mind was still under a cloud.
"Nobody. But if you were, I meant. And then I suppose there'd be anawful row and general sickness, and all that. And then you'd be sentinto a bank, or to Australia, or something."
Mike dozed off again.
"My father would be frightfully sick. My mater would be sick. My sisterwould be jolly sick, too. Have you got any sisters, Jackson? Isay, Jackson!"
"Hello! What's the matter? Who's that?"
"Me--Jellicoe."
"What's up?"
"I asked you if you'd got any sisters."
"Any _what?_"
"Sisters."
"Whose sisters?"
"Yours. I asked if you'd got any."
"Any what?"
"Sisters."
"What about them?"
The conversation was becoming too intricate for Jellicoe. He changed thesubject.
"I say, Jackson!"
"Well?"
"I say, you don't know anyone who could lend me a pound, do you?"
"What!" cried Mike, sitting up in bed and staring through the darknessin the direction whence the numismatist's voice was proceeding."Do _what?_"
"I say, look out. You'll wake Psmith."
"Did you say you wanted someone to lend you a quid?"
"Yes," said Jellicoe eagerly. "Do you know anyone?"
Mike's head throbbed. This thing was too much. The human brain could notbe expected to cope with it. Here was a youth who had borrowed a poundfrom one friend the day before, and three pounds from another friendthat very afternoon, already looking about him for further loans. Was ita hobby, or was he saving up to buy an airplane?
"What on earth do you want a pound for?"
"I don't want to tell anybody. But it's jolly serious. I shall getsacked if I don't get it."
Mike pondered.
Those who have followed Mike's career as set forth by the presenthistorian will have realized by this time that he was a good long wayfrom being perfect. As the Blue-Eyed Hero he would have been a rankfailure. Except on the cricket field, where he was a natural genius, hewas just ordinary. He resembled ninety percent of other members ofEnglish public schools. He had some virtues and a good many defects. Hewas as obst
inate as a mule, though people whom he liked could do as theypleased with him. He was good-natured as a general thing, but onoccasion his temper could be of the worst, and had, in his childhood,been the subject of much adverse comment among his aunts. He was rigidlytruthful, where the issue concerned only himself. Where it was a case ofsaving a friend, he was prepared to act in a manner reminiscent of anAmerican expert witness.
He had, in addition, one good quality without any defect to balance it.He was always ready to help people. And when he set himself to do this,he was never put off by discomfort or risk. He went at the thing with asingleness of purpose that asked no questions.
Bob's postal order which had arrived that evening, was reposing in thebreast pocket of his coat.
It was a wrench, but, if the situation was so serious with Jellicoe, ithad to be done.
Two minutes later the night was being made hideous by Jellicoe's almosttearful protestations of gratitude, and the postal order had moved fromone side of the dormitory to the other.