How are you getting on with the
evening meal?"
"Just ready. What would you give to be at Eton now? I'd give something
to be at Wrykyn."
"These school reports," said Psmith sympathetically, "are the very
dickens. Many a bright young lad has been soured by them. Hullo.
What's this, I wonder."
A heavy body had plunged against the door, evidently without a
suspicion that there would be any resistance. A rattling at the handle
followed, and a voice outside said, "Dash the door!"
"Hackenschmidt!" said Mike.
"The weed," said Psmith. "You couldn't make a long arm, could you, and
turn the key? We had better give this merchant audience. Remind me
later to go on with my remarks on school reports. I had several bright
things to say on the subject."
Mike unlocked the door, and flung it open. Framed in the entrance was
a smallish, freckled boy, wearing a bowler hat and carrying a bag. On
his face was an expression of mingled wrath and astonishment.
Psmith rose courteously from his chair, and moved forward with slow
stateliness to do the honours.
"What the dickens," inquired the newcomer, "are you doing here?"
[Illustration: "WHAT THE DICKENS ARE YOU DOING HERE?"]
"We were having a little tea," said Psmith, "to restore our tissues
after our journey. Come in and join us. We keep open house, we
Psmiths.
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