He
ached all over. Psmith chatted for a time on human affairs in general,
and then dropped gently off. Jellicoe, who appeared to be wrapped in
gloom, contributed nothing to the conversation.
After Psmith had gone to sleep, Mike lay for some time running over in
his mind, as the best substitute for sleep, the various points of his
innings that day. He felt very hot and uncomfortable.
Just as he was wondering whether it would not be a good idea to get up
and have a cold bath, a voice spoke from the darkness at his side.
"Are you asleep, Jackson?"
"Who's that?"
"Me--Jellicoe. I can't get to sleep."
"Nor can I. I'm stiff all over."
"I'll come over and sit on your bed."
There was a creaking, and then a weight descended in the neighborhood of
Mike's toes.
Jellicoe was apparently not in conversational mood. He uttered no word
for quite three minutes. At the end of which time he gave a sound midway
between a snort and a sigh.
"I say, Jackson!" he said.
"Yes?"
"Have you--oh, nothing."
Silence again.
"Jackson."
"Hello?"
"I say, what would your people say if you got sacked?"
"All sorts of things. Especially my father. Why?"
"Oh, I don't know.
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