I shall found a new dynasty. The resolve came to me unexpectedly this
morning, as I was buying a simple penn'orth of butterscotch out of
the automatic machine at Paddington. I jotted it down on the back of
an envelope. In conversation you may address me as Rupert (though I
hope you won't), or simply Smith, the P not being sounded. Cp. the
name Zbysco, in which the Z is given a similar miss-in-baulk. See?"
Mike said he saw. Psmith thanked him with a certain stately old-world
courtesy.
"Let us start at the beginning," he resumed. "My infancy. When I was
but a babe, my eldest sister was bribed with a shilling an hour by my
nurse to keep an rye on me, and see that I did not raise Cain. At the
end of the first day she struck for one-and six, and got it. We now
pass to my boyhood. At an early age, I was sent to Eton, everybody
predicting a bright career for me. But," said Psmith solemnly, fixing
an owl-like gaze on Mike through the eye-glass, "it was not to be."
"No?" said Mike.
"No. I was superannuated last term."
"Bad luck."
"For Eton, yes. But what Eton loses, Sedleigh gains."
"But why Sedleigh, of all places?"
"This is the most painful part of my narrative. It seems that a
certain scug in the next village to ours happened last year to collar
a Balliol----"
"Not Barlitt!" exclaimed Mike.
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