Of course I've got two pairs,
but one's being soled. So I had to go over to school yesterday in gym
shoes. That's how he spotted me."
Psmith sighed.
"Comrade Jackson," he said mournfully, "all this very sad affair shows
the folly of acting from the best motives. In my simple zeal, meaning to
save you unpleasantness, I have landed you, with a dull, sickening thud,
right in the cart. Are you particular about dirtying your hands? If you
aren't, just reach up that chimney a bit!"
Mike stared.
"What the dickens are you talking about?"
"Go on. Get it over. Be a man, and reach up the chimney."
"I don't know what the game is," said Mike, kneeling beside the fender
and groping, "but--_Hello_!"
"Ah ha!" said Psmith moodily.
Mike dropped the soot-covered object in the fender, and glared at it.
"It's my shoe!" he said at last.
"It _is_," said Psmith, "your shoe. And what is that red stain across
the toe? Is it blood? No, 'tis not blood. It is red paint."
Mike seemed unable to remove his eyes from the shoe.
"How on earth did--By Jove! I remember now. I kicked up against
something in the dark when I was putting my bicycle back that night. It
must have been the paint pot.
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