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Mike shortly, “I didn’t. But after listening to Downing I

almost began to wonder if I hadn’t. The man’s got stacks of evidence

to prove that I did.”

 

“Such as what?”

 

“It’s mostly about my boots. But, dash it, you know all about that.

Why, you were with him when he came and looked for them.”

 

“It is true,” said Psmith, “that Comrade Downing and I spent a very

pleasant half-hour together inspecting boots, but how does he drag you

into it?”

 

“He swears one of the boots was splashed with paint.”

 

“Yes. He babbled to some extent on that point when I was entertaining

him. But what makes him think that the boot, if any, was yours?”

 

“He’s certain that somebody in this house got one of his boots

splashed, and is hiding it somewhere. And I’m the only chap in the

house who hasn’t got a pair of boots to show, so he thinks it’s me. I

don’t know where the dickens my other boot has gone. Edmund swears he

hasn’t seen it, and it’s nowhere about. Of course I’ve got two pairs,

but one’s being soled. So I had to go over to school yesterday in

pumps. That’s how he spotted me.”

 

Psmith sighed.

 

“Comrade Jackson,” he said mournfully, “all this very sad affair shows

the folly of acting from the best motives. In my simple zeal, meaning

to save you unpleasantness, I have landed you, with a dull, sickening

thud, right in the cart. Are you particular about dirtying your hands?

If you aren’t, just reach up that chimney a bit?”

 

Mike stared, “What the dickens are you talking about?”

 

“Go on. Get it over. Be a man, and reach up the chimney.”

 

“I don’t know what the game is,” said Mike, kneeling beside the fender

and groping, “but—_Hullo_!”

 

“Ah ha!” said Psmith moodily.

 

Mike dropped the soot-covered object in the fender, and glared at it.

 

[Illustration: MIKE DROPPED THE SOOT-COVERED OBJECT IN THE FENDER.]

 

“It’s my boot!” he said at last.

 

“It is,” said Psmith, “your boot. And what is that red stain

across the toe? Is it blood? No, ‘tis not blood. It is red paint.”

 

Mike seemed unable to remove his eyes from the boot.

 

“How on earth did—By Jove! I remember now. I kicked up against

something in the dark when I was putting my bicycle back that night.

It must have been the paint-pot.”

 

“Then you were out that night?”

 

“Rather. That’s what makes it so jolly awkward. It’s too long to tell

you now–-”

 

“Your stories are never too long for me,” said Psmith. “Say on!”

 

“Well, it was like this.” And Mike related the events which had led up

to his midnight excursion. Psmith listened attentively.

 

“This,” he said, when Mike had finished, “confirms my frequently stated

opinion that Comrade Jellicoe is one of Nature’s blitherers. So that’s

why he touched us for our hard-earned, was it?”

 

“Yes. Of course there was no need for him to have the money at all.”

 

“And the result is that you are in something of a tight place. You’re

absolutely certain you didn’t paint that dog? Didn’t do it, by

any chance, in a moment of absent-mindedness, and forgot all about it?

No? No, I suppose not. I wonder who did!”

 

“It’s beastly awkward. You see, Downing chased me that night. That was

why I rang the alarm bell. So, you see, he’s certain to think that the

chap he chased, which was me, and the chap who painted Sammy, are the

same. I shall get landed both ways.”

 

Psmith pondered.

 

“It is a tightish place,” he admitted.

 

“I wonder if we could get this boot clean,” said Mike, inspecting it

with disfavour.

 

“Not for a pretty considerable time.”

 

“I suppose not. I say, I am in the cart. If I can’t produce

this boot, they’re bound to guess why.”

 

“What exactly,” asked Psmith, “was the position of affairs between you

and Comrade Downing when you left him? Had you definitely parted

brass-rags? Or did you simply sort of drift apart with mutual

courtesies?”

 

“Oh, he said I was ill-advised to continue that attitude, or some rot,

and I said I didn’t care, I hadn’t painted his bally dog, and he said

very well, then, he must take steps, and—well, that was about all.”

 

“Sufficient, too,” said Psmith, “quite sufficient. I take it, then,

that he is now on the war-path, collecting a gang, so to speak.”

 

“I suppose he’s gone to the Old Man about it.”

 

“Probably. A very worrying time our headmaster is having, taking it

all round, in connection with this painful affair. What do you think

his move will be?”

 

“I suppose he’ll send for me, and try to get something out of me.”

 

He’ll want you to confess, too. Masters are all whales on

confession. The worst of it is, you can’t prove an alibi, because

at about the time the foul act was perpetrated, you were playing

Round-and-round-the-mulberry-bush with Comrade Downing. This needs

thought. You had better put the case in my hands, and go out and

watch the dandelions growing. I will think over the matter.”

 

“Well, I hope you’ll be able to think of something. I can’t.”

 

“Possibly. You never know.”

 

There was a tap at the door.

 

“See how we have trained them,” said Psmith. “They now knock before

entering. There was a time when they would have tried to smash in a

panel. Come in.”

 

A small boy, carrying a straw hat adorned with the school-house

ribbon, answered the invitation.

 

“Oh, I say, Jackson,” he said, “the headmaster sent me over to tell

you he wants to see you.”

 

“I told you so,” said Mike to Psmith.

 

“Don’t go,” suggested Psmith. “Tell him to write.”

 

Mike got up.

 

“All this is very trying,” said Psmith. “I’m seeing nothing of you

to-day.” He turned to the small boy. “Tell Willie,” he added, “that

Mr. Jackson will be with him in a moment.”

 

The emissary departed.

 

You’re all right,” said Psmith encouragingly. “Just you keep

on saying you’re all right. Stout denial is the thing. Don’t go in for

any airy explanations. Simply stick to stout denial. You can’t beat

it.”

 

With which expert advice, he allowed Mike to go on his way.

 

He had not been gone two minutes, when Psmith, who had leaned back in

his chair, wrapped in thought, heaved himself up again. He stood for a

moment straightening his tie at the looking-glass; then he picked up

his hat and moved slowly out of the door and down the passage. Thence,

at the same dignified rate of progress, out of the house and in at

Downing’s front gate.

 

The postman was at the door when he got there, apparently absorbed in

conversation with the parlour-maid. Psmith stood by politely till the

postman, who had just been told it was like his impudence, caught

sight of him, and, having handed over the letters in an ultra-formal

and professional manner, passed away.

 

“Is Mr. Downing at home?” inquired Psmith.

 

He was, it seemed. Psmith was shown into the dining-room on the left

of the hall, and requested to wait. He was examining a portrait of Mr.

Downing which hung on the wall, when the housemaster came in.

 

“An excellent likeness, sir,” said Psmith, with a gesture of the hand

towards the painting.

 

“Well, Smith,” said Mr. Downing shortly, “what do you wish to see me

about?”

 

“It was in connection with the regrettable painting of your dog, sir.”

 

“Ha!” said Mr. Downing.

 

“I did it, sir,” said Psmith, stopping and flicking a piece of fluff

off his knee.

CHAPTER LVIII

THE ARTIST CLAIMS HIS WORK

 

The line of action which Psmith had called Stout Denial is an

excellent line to adopt, especially if you really are innocent, but it

does not lead to anything in the shape of a bright and snappy dialogue

between accuser and accused. Both Mike and the headmaster were

oppressed by a feeling that the situation was difficult. The

atmosphere was heavy, and conversation showed a tendency to flag. The

headmaster had opened brightly enough, with a summary of the evidence

which Mr. Downing had laid before him, but after that a massive

silence had been the order of the day. There is nothing in this world

quite so stolid and uncommunicative as a boy who has made up his mind

to be stolid and uncommunicative; and the headmaster, as he sat and

looked at Mike, who sat and looked past him at the bookshelves, felt

awkward. It was a scene which needed either a dramatic interruption or

a neat exit speech. As it happened, what it got was the dramatic

interruption.

 

The headmaster was just saying, “I do not think you fully realise,

Jackson, the extent to which appearances—” —which was practically

going back to the beginning and starting again—when there was a knock

at the door. A voice without said, “Mr. Downing to see you, sir,” and

the chief witness for the prosecution burst in.

 

“I would not have interrupted you,” said Mr. Downing, “but–-”

 

“Not at all, Mr. Downing. Is there anything I can–-?”

 

“I have discovered—I have been informed—In short, it was not

Jackson, who committed the—who painted my dog.”

 

Mike and the headmaster both looked at the speaker. Mike with a

feeling of relief—for Stout Denial, unsupported by any weighty

evidence, is a wearing game to play—the headmaster with astonishment.

 

“Not Jackson?” said the headmaster.

 

“No. It was a boy in the same house. Smith.”

 

Psmith! Mike was more than surprised. He could not believe it. There

is nothing which affords so clear an index to a boy’s character as the

type of rag which he considers humorous. Between what is a rag and

what is merely a rotten trick there is a very definite line drawn.

Masters, as a rule, do not realise this, but boys nearly always do.

Mike could not imagine Psmith doing a rotten thing like covering a

housemaster’s dog with red paint, any more than he could imagine doing

it himself. They had both been amused at the sight of Sammy after the

operation, but anybody, except possibly the owner of the dog, would

have thought it funny at first. After the first surprise, their

feeling had been that it was a scuggish thing to have done and beastly

rough luck on the poor brute. It was a kid’s trick. As for Psmith

having done it, Mike simply did not believe it.

 

“Smith!” said the headmaster. “What makes you think that?”

 

“Simply this,” said Mr. Downing, with calm triumph, “that the boy

himself came to me a few moments ago and confessed.”

 

Mike was conscious of a feeling of acute depression. It did not make

him in the least degree jubilant, or even thankful, to know that he

himself was cleared of the charge. All he could think of was that

Psmith was done for. This was bound to mean the sack. If Psmith had

painted Sammy, it meant that Psmith had broken out of his house at

night: and it was not likely that the rules about nocturnal wandering

were less strict at Sedleigh than at any other school in the kingdom.

Mike felt, if possible, worse than he had felt when Wyatt had been

caught on a similar occasion. It seemed as if Fate had a special

grudge against his best friends. He did not make friends very quickly

or easily, though he had always

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