“I don’t know that so much.  I wish we could play, because I’m certain, with you and Smith, we’d walk into them.  They probably aren’t sending down much of a team, and really, now that you and Smith are turning out, we’ve got a jolly hot lot.  There’s quite decent batting all the way through, and the bowling isn’t so bad.  If only we could have given this M.C.C. lot a really good hammering, it might have been easier to get some good fixtures for next season.  You see, it’s all right for a school like Wrykyn, but with a small place like this you simply can’t get the best teams to give you a match till you’ve done something to show that you aren’t absolute rotters at the game.  As for the schools, they’re worse.  They’d simply laugh at you.  You were cricket secretary at Wrykyn last year.  What would you have done if you’d had a challenge from Sedleigh?  You’d either have laughed till you were sick, or else had a fit at the mere idea of the thing.”

Mike stopped.

“By Jove, you’ve struck about the brightest scheme on record.  I never thought of it before.  Let’s get a match on with Wrykyn.”

“What!  They wouldn’t play us.”

“Yes, they would.  At least, I’m pretty sure they would.  I had a letter from Strachan, the captain, yesterday, saying that the Ripton match had had to be scratched owing to illness.  So they’ve got a vacant date.  Shall I try them?  I’ll write to Strachan to-night, if you like.  And they aren’t strong this year.  We’ll smash them.  What do you say?”

Adair was as one who has seen a vision.

“By Jove,” he said at last, “if we only could!”

CHAPTER LVII 

MR. DOWNING MOVES

The rain continued without a break all the morning.  The two teams, after hanging about dismally, and whiling the time away with stump-cricket in the changing-rooms, lunched in the pavilion at one o’clock.  After which the M.C.C. captain, approaching Adair, moved that this merry meeting be considered off and himself and his men permitted to catch the next train back to town.  To which Adair, seeing that it was out of the question that there should be any cricket that afternoon, regretfully agreed, and the first Sedleigh v.  M.C.C. match was accordingly scratched.

Mike and Psmith, wandering back to the house, were met by a damp junior from Downing’s, with a message that Mr. Downing wished to see Mike as soon as he was changed.

“What’s he want me for?” inquired Mike.

The messenger did not know.  Mr. Downing, it seemed, had not confided in him.  All he knew was that the housemaster was in the house, and would be glad if Mike would step across.

“A nuisance,” said Psmith, “this incessant demand for you.  That’s the worst of being popular.  If he wants you to stop to tea, edge away.  A meal on rather a sumptuous scale will be prepared in the study against your return.”

Mike changed quickly, and went off, leaving Psmith, who was fond of simple pleasures in his spare time, earnestly occupied with a puzzle which had been scattered through the land by a weekly paper.  The prize for a solution was one thousand pounds, and Psmith had already informed Mike with some minuteness of his plans for the disposition of this sum.  Meanwhile, he worked at it both in and out of school, generally with abusive comments on its inventor.

He was still fiddling away at it when Mike returned.

Mike, though Psmith was at first too absorbed to notice it, was agitated.

“I don’t wish to be in any way harsh,” said Psmith, without looking up, “but the man who invented this thing was a blighter of the worst type.  You come and have a shot.  For the moment I am baffled.  The whisper flies round the clubs, ‘Psmith is baffled.’”

“The man’s an absolute drivelling ass,” said Mike warmly.

“Me, do you mean?”

“What on earth would be the point of my doing it?”

“You’d gather in a thousand of the best.  Give you a nice start in life.”

“I’m not talking about your rotten puzzle.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That ass Downing.  I believe he’s off his nut.”

“Then your chat with Comrade Downing was not of the old-College-chums-meeting-unexpectedly-after-years’-separation type?  What has he been doing to you?”

“He’s off his nut.”

“I know.  But what did he do?  How did the brainstorm burst?  Did he jump at you from behind a door and bite a piece out of your leg, or did he say he was a tea-pot?”

Mike sat down.

“You remember that painting Sammy business?”

“As if it were yesterday,” said Psmith.  “Which it was, pretty nearly.”

“He thinks I did it.”

“Why?  Have you ever shown any talent in the painting line?”

“The silly ass wanted me to confess that I’d done it.  He as good as asked me to.  Jawed a lot of rot about my finding it to my advantage later on if I behaved sensibly.”

“Then what are you worrying about?  Don’t you know that when a master wants you to do the confessing-act, it simply means that he hasn’t enough evidence to start in on you with?  You’re all right.  The thing’s a stand-off.”