"Nobody. But if you were, I meant. And then I suppose there'd be an
awful row and general sickness, and all that. And then you'd be sent
into a bank, or to Australia, or something."
Mike dozed off again.
"My father would be frightfully sick. My mater would be sick. My sister
would be jolly sick, too. Have you got any sisters, Jackson? I
say, Jackson!"
"Hello! What's the matter? Who's that?"
"Me--Jellicoe."
"What's up?"
"I asked you if you'd got any sisters."
"Any _what?_"
"Sisters."
"Whose sisters?"
"Yours. I asked if you'd got any."
"Any what?"
"Sisters."
"What about them?"
The conversation was becoming too intricate for Jellicoe. He changed the
subject.
"I say, Jackson!"
"Well?"
"I say, you don't know anyone who could lend me a pound, do you?"
"What!" cried Mike, sitting up in bed and staring through the darkness
in the direction whence the numismatist's voice was proceeding.
"Do _what?_"
"I say, look out. You'll wake Psmith."
"Did you say you wanted someone to lend you a quid?"
"Yes," said Jellicoe eagerly. "Do you know anyone?"
Mike's head throbbed. This thing was too much. The human brain could not
be expected to cope with it.
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