Psmith in the City - P. G. Wodehouse (romantic love story reading txt) 📗

it had been promising. The fact that two members of the team had made centuries, and a third seventy odd, had rather eclipsed his own twenty-nine not out; but it had been a faultless innings, and nearly all the papers had said that here was yet another Jackson, evidently well up to the family standard, who was bound to do big things in the future.

The touch of gloom was contributed by his brother Bob to a certain extent, and by his father more noticeably. Bob looked slightly thoughtful. Mr. Jackson seemed thoroughly worried.

Mike approached Bob on the subject in the billiard-room after dinner. Bob was practising cannons in rather a listless way.

“What’s up, Bob?” asked Mike.

Bob laid down his cue.

“I’m hanged if I know,” said Bob. “Something seems to be. Father’s worried about something.”

“He looked as if he’d got the hump rather at dinner.”

“I only got here this afternoon, about three hours before you did. I had a bit of a talk with him before dinner. I can’t make out what’s up. He seemed awfully keen on my finding something to do now I’ve come down from Oxford. Wanted to know whether I couldn’t get a tutoring job or a mastership at some school next term. I said I’d have a shot. I don’t see what all the hurry’s about, though. I was hoping he’d give me a bit of travelling on the Continent somewhere before I started in.”

“Rough luck,” said Mike. “I wonder why it is. Jolly good about Joe, wasn’t it? Let’s have fifty up, shall we?”

Bob’s remarks had given Mike no hint of impending disaster. It seemed strange, of course, that his father, who had always been so easygoing, should have developed a hustling Get On or Get Out spirit, and be urging Bob to Do It Now; but it never occurred to him that there could be any serious reason for it. After all, fellows had to start working some time or other. Probably his father had merely pointed this out to Bob, and Bob had made too much of it.

Halfway through the game Mr. Jackson entered the room, and stood watching in silence.

“Want a game, father?” asked Mike.

“No, thanks, Mike. What is it? A hundred up?”

“Fifty.”

“Oh, then you’ll be finished in a moment. When you are, I wish you’d just look into the study for a moment, Mike. I want to have a talk with you.”

“Rum,” said Mike, as the door closed. “I wonder what’s up?”

For a wonder his conscience was free. It was not as if a bad school-report might have arrived in his absence. His Sedleigh report had come at the beginning of the holidays, and had been, on the whole, fairly decent⁠—nothing startling either way. Mr. Downing, perhaps through remorse at having harried Mike to such an extent during the Sammy episode, had exercised a studied moderation in his remarks. He had let Mike down far more easily than he really deserved. So it could not be a report that was worrying Mr. Jackson. And there was nothing else on his conscience.

Bob made a break of sixteen, and ran out. Mike replaced his cue, and walked to the study.

His father was sitting at the table. Except for the very important fact that this time he felt that he could plead Not Guilty on every possible charge, Mike was struck by the resemblance in the general arrangement of the scene to that painful ten minutes at the end of the previous holidays, when his father had announced his intention of taking him away from Wrykyn and sending him to Sedleigh. The resemblance was increased by the fact that, as Mike entered, Mr. Jackson was kicking at the waste-paper basket⁠—a thing which with him was an infallible sign of mental unrest.

“Sit down, Mike,” said Mr. Jackson. “How did you get on during the week?”

“Topping. Only once out under double figures. And then I was run out. Got a century against the Green Jackets, seventy-one against the Incogs, and today I made ninety-eight on a beast of a wicket, and only got out because some silly goat of a chap⁠—”

He broke off. Mr. Jackson did not seem to be attending. There was a silence. Then Mr. Jackson spoke with an obvious effort.

“Look here, Mike, we’ve always understood one another, haven’t we?”

“Of course we have.”

“You know I wouldn’t do anything to prevent you having a good time, if I could help it. I took you away from Wrykyn, I know, but that was a special case. It was necessary. But I understand perfectly how keen you are to go to Cambridge, and I wouldn’t stand in the way for a minute, if I could help it.”

Mike looked at him blankly. This could only mean one thing. He was not to go to the ’Varsity. But why? What had happened? When he had left for the Smith’s cricket week, his name had been down for King’s, and the whole thing settled. What could have happened since then?

“But I can’t help it,” continued Mr. Jackson.

“Aren’t I going up to Cambridge, father?” stammered Mike.

“I’m afraid not, Mike. I’d manage it if I possibly could. I’m just as anxious to see you get your Blue as you are to get it. But it’s kinder to be quite frank. I can’t afford to send you to Cambridge. I won’t go into details which you would not understand; but I’ve lost a very large sum of money since I saw you last. So large that we shall have to economize in every way. I shall let this house and take a much smaller one. And you and Bob, I’m afraid, will have to start earning your living. I know it’s a terrible disappointment to you, old chap.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mike thickly. There seemed to be something sticking in his throat, preventing him from speaking.

“If there was any possible way⁠—”

“No, it’s all right, father, really. I don’t mind a bit. It’s awfully rough luck on you losing all that.”

There was another silence. The clock ticked away energetically on the mantelpiece,