Having to yield a sovereign
to Jellicoe--why on earth did the man want all that?--meant that,
unless a carefully worded letter to his brother Bob at Oxford had the
desired effect, he would be practically penniless for weeks.
In a gloomy frame of mind he sat down to write to Bob, who was playing
regularly for the 'Varsity this season, and only the previous week had
made a century against Sussex, so might be expected to be in a
sufficiently softened mood to advance the needful. (Which, it may be
stated at once, he did, by return of post.)
Mike was struggling with the opening sentences of this letter--he was
never a very ready writer--when Stone and Robinson burst into the
room.
Mike put down his pen, and got up. He was in warlike mood, and
welcomed the intrusion. If Stone and Robinson wanted battle, they
should have it.
But the motives of the expedition were obviously friendly. Stone
beamed. Robinson was laughing.
"You're a sportsman," said Robinson.
"What did he give you?" asked Stone.
They sat down, Robinson on the table, Stone in Psmith' s deck-chair.
Mike's heart warmed to them. The little disturbance in the dormitory
was a thing of the past, done with, forgotten, contemporary with
Julius Caesar. He felt that he, Stone and Robinson must learn to know
and appreciate one another.
There was, as a matter of fact, nothing much wrong with Stone and
Robinson.
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