"
"These school reports," said Psmith sympathetically, "are the very
dickens. Many a bright young lad has been soured by them. Hello, what's
this, I wonder."
A heavy body had plunged against the door, evidently without a suspicion
that there would be any resistance. A rattling of the handle followed,
and a voice outside said, "Dash the door!"
"Hackenschmidt!" said Mike.
"The weed," said Psmith. "You couldn't make a long arm, could you, and
turn the key? We had better give this merchant audience. Remind me later
to go on with my remarks on school reports. I had several bright things
to say on the subject."
Mike unlocked the door, and flung it open. Framed in the entrance was a
smallish, freckled boy, wearing a pork-pie hat and carrying a bag. On
his face was an expression of mingled wrath and astonishment.
Psmith rose courteously from his chair, and moved forward with slow
stateliness to do the honors.
"What the dickens," inquired the newcomer, "are you doing here?"
"We were having a little tea," said Psmith, "to restore our tissues
after our journey. Come in and join us. We keep open house, we Psmiths.
Let me introduce you to Comrade Jackson.
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