Mike by P. G. Wodehouse (good fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

at it.

“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 had scores of acquaintances—­and with Wyatt and Psmith he had found himself at home from the first moment he had met them.

He sat there, with a curious feeling of having swallowed a heavy weight, hardly listening to what Mr. Downing was saying.  Mr. Downing was talking rapidly to the headmaster, who was nodding from time to time.

Mike took advantage of a pause to get up.  “May I go, sir?” he said.

“Certainly, Jackson, certainly,” said the Head.  “Oh, and er—­, if you are going back to your house, tell Smith that I should like to see him.”

“Yes, sir.”

He had reached the door, when again there was a knock.

“Come in,” said the headmaster.

It was Adair.

“Yes, Adair?”

Adair was breathing rather heavily, as if he had been running.

“It was about Sammy—­Sampson, sir,” he said, looking at Mr. Downing.

“Ah, we know—.  Well, Adair, what did you wish to say?”

“It wasn’t Jackson who did it, sir.”

“No, no, Adair.  So Mr. Downing——­”

“It was Dunster, sir.”

Terrific sensation!  The headmaster gave a sort of strangled yelp of astonishment.  Mr. Downing leaped in his chair.  Mike’s eyes opened to their fullest extent.

“Adair!”

There was almost a wail in the headmaster’s voice.  The situation had suddenly become too much for him.  His brain was swimming.  That Mike, despite the evidence against him, should be innocent, was curious, perhaps, but not particularly startling.  But that Adair should inform him, two minutes after Mr. Downing’s announcement of Psmith’s confession, that Psmith, too, was guiltless, and that the real criminal was Dunster—­it was this that made him feel that somebody, in the words of an American author, had played a mean trick on him, and substituted for his brain a side-order of cauliflower.  Why Dunster, of all people?  Dunster, who, he remembered dizzily, had left the school at Christmas.  And why, if Dunster had really painted the dog, had Psmith asserted that he himself was the culprit?  Why—­why anything?  He concentrated his mind on Adair as the only person who could save him from impending brain-fever.

“Adair!”

“Yes, sir?”

“What—­what do you mean?”

“It was Dunster, sir.  I got a letter from him only five minutes ago, in which he said that he had painted Sammy—­Sampson, the dog, sir, for a rag—­for a joke, and that, as he didn’t want any one here to get into a row—­be punished for it, I’d better tell Mr. Downing at once.  I tried to find Mr. Downing, but he wasn’t in the house.  Then I met Smith outside the house, and he told me that Mr. Downing had gone over to see you, sir.”

“Smith told you?” said Mr. Downing.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you say anything to him about your having received this letter from Dunster?”

“I gave him the letter to read, sir.”

“And what was his attitude when he had read it?”

“He laughed, sir.”

“Laughed!” Mr. Downing’s voice was thunderous.

“Yes, sir.  He rolled about.”

Mr. Downing snorted.

“But Adair,” said the headmaster, “I do not understand how this thing could have been done by Dunster.  He has left the school.”

“He was down here for the Old Sedleighans’ match, sir.  He stopped the night in the village.”

“And that was the night the—­it happened?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see.  Well, I am glad to find that the blame cannot be attached to any boy in the school.  I am sorry that it is even an Old Boy.  It was a foolish, discreditable thing to have done, but it is not as bad as if any boy still at the school had broken out of his house at night to do it.”

“The sergeant,” said Mr. Downing, “told me that the boy he saw was attempting to enter Mr. Outwood’s house.”

“Another freak of Dunster’s, I suppose,” said the headmaster.  “I shall write to him.”

“If it was really Dunster who painted my dog,” said Mr. Downing, “I cannot understand the part played by Smith in this affair.  If he did not do it, what possible motive could he have had for coming to me of his own accord and deliberately confessing?”

“To be sure,” said the headmaster, pressing a bell.  “It is certainly a thing that calls for explanation.  Barlow,” he said, as the butler appeared, “kindly go across to Mr. Outwood’s house and inform Smith that I should like