"Let us
parley with the man."
Mike unlocked the door. A light-haired youth with a cheerful, rather
vacant face and a receding chin strolled into the room, and stood
giggling with his hands in his pockets.
"I just came up to have a look at you," he explained.
"If you move a little to the left," said Psmith, "you will catch the
light and shade effects on Jackson's face better."
The new-comer giggled with renewed vigour. "Are you the chap with the
eyeglass who jaws all the time?"
"I _do_ wear an eyeglass," said Psmith; "as to the rest of the
description----"
"My name's Jellicoe."
"Mine is Psmith--P-s-m-i-t-h--one of the Shropshire Psmiths. The
object on the skyline is Comrade Jackson."
"Old Spiller," giggled Jellicoe, "is cursing you like anything
downstairs. You _are_ chaps! Do you mean to say you simply bagged
his study? He's making no end of a row about it."
"Spiller's fiery nature is a byword," said Psmith.
"What's he going to do?" asked Mike, in his practical way.
"He's going to get the chaps to turn you out."
"As I suspected," sighed Psmith, as one mourning over the frailty of
human nature. "About how many horny-handed assistants should you say
that he would be likely to bring? Will you, for instance, join the
glad throng?"
"Me? No fear! I think Spiller's an ass."
"There's nothing like a common thought for binding people together.
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