Psmith had noticed, on
leaving his bed at the sound of the alarm bell, that he and Jellicoe
were alone in the room. That might mean that Mike had gone out through
the door when the bell sounded, or it might mean that he had been out
all the time. It began to look as if the latter solution were the
correct one.
He staggered back with the basket, painfully conscious all the while
that it was creasing his waistcoat, and dumped it down on the study
floor. Mr. Downing stooped eagerly over it. Psmith leaned against the
wall, and straightened out the damaged garment.
"We have here, sir," he said, "a fair selection of our various
bootings."
Mr. Downing looked up.
"You dropped none of the shoes on your way up, Smith?"
"Not one, sir. It was a fine performance."
Mr. Downing uttered a grunt of satisfaction, and bent once more to his
task. Shoes flew about the room. Mr. Downing knelt on the floor beside
the basket, and dug like a terrier at a rathole.
At last he made a dive, and, with an exclamation of triumph, rose to his
feet. In his hand he held a shoe.
"Put those back again, Smith," he said.
The ex-Etonian, wearing an expression such as a martyr might have worn
on being told off for the stake, began to pick up the scattered
footgear, whistling softly the tune of "I do all the dirty work," as
he did so.
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