"The man has absolutely no sense of humour--can't see when
he's being rotted. Well it was like this--Hullo! We're all out--I
shall have to be going out to field again, I suppose, dash it! I'll
tell you when I see you again."
"I shall count the minutes," said Psmith.
Mike stretched himself; the sun was very soothing after his two hours
in the detention-room; he felt disinclined for exertion.
"I don't suppose it's anything special about Jellicoe, do you?" he
said. "I mean, it'll keep till tea-time; it's no catch having to sweat
across to the house now."
"Don't dream of moving," said Psmith. "I have several rather profound
observations on life to make and I can't make them without an
audience. Soliloquy is a knack. Hamlet had got it, but probably only
after years of patient practice. Personally, I need some one to listen
when I talk. I like to feel that I am doing good. You stay where you
are--don't interrupt too much."
Mike tilted his hat over his eyes and abandoned Jellicoe.
It was not until the lock-up bell rang that he remembered him. He went
over to the house and made his way to the dormitory, where he found
the injured one in a parlous state, not so much physical as mental.
The doctor had seen his ankle and reported that it would be on the
active list in a couple of days. It was Jellicoe's mind that needed
attention now.
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