Mike had a deck-chair in one hand and
a book in the other. Psmith--for even the greatest minds will
sometimes unbend--was playing diabolo. That is to say, he was trying
without success to raise the spool from the ground.
"There's a kid in France," said Mike disparagingly, as the bobbin
rolled off the string for the fourth time, "who can do it three
thousand seven hundred and something times."
Psmith smoothed a crease out of his waistcoat and tried again. He had
just succeeded in getting the thing to spin when Mr. Downing arrived.
The sound of his footsteps disturbed Psmith and brought the effort to
nothing.
"Enough of this spoolery," said he, flinging the sticks through the
open window of the senior day-room. "I was an ass ever to try it. The
philosophical mind needs complete repose in its hours of leisure.
Hullo!"
He stared after the sleuth-hound, who had just entered the house.
"What the dickens," said Mike, "does he mean by barging in as if he'd
bought the place?"
"Comrade Downing looks pleased with himself. What brings him round in
this direction, I wonder! Still, no matter. The few articles which he
may sneak from our study are of inconsiderable value. He is welcome to
them. Do you feel inclined to wait awhile till I have fetched a chair
and book?"
"I'll be going on. I shall be under the trees at the far end of the
ground.
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