Psmith thanked him courteously. They walked on toward the houses.
"By the way, Adair," said Mike, as the latter started to turn in at
Downing's, "I'll write to Strachan tonight about that match."
"What's that?" asked Psmith.
"Jackson's going to try and get Wrykyn to give us a game," said Adair.
"They've got a vacant date. I hope the dickens they'll do it."
"Oh, I should think they're certain to," said Mike. "Good night."
"And give Comrade Downing, when you see him," said Psmith, "my very best
love. It is men like him who make this Merrie England of ours what
it is."
* * * * *
"I say, Psmith," said Mike suddenly, "what really made you tell Downing
you'd done it?"
"The craving for--"
"Oh, chuck it. You aren't talking to the Old Man now. I believe it was
simply to get me out of a jolly tight corner."
Psmith's expression was one of pain.
"My dear Comrade Jackson," said he, "you wrong me. You make me writhe.
I'm surprised at you. I never thought to hear those words from
Michael Jackson."
"Well, I believe you did, all the same," said Mike obstinately. "And it
was jolly good of you, too."
Psmith moaned.
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